Chuck Versus Route 66 (Chuck 6-05 and 6-06)
by anthropocene
Summary: Two-part sequel to "Chuck Versus The Amber Alert": episodes 5 & 6 of an imaginary Season 6 of "Chuck." Chuck and Sarah take a road trip from L.A. to Chicago to see Ellie, Awesome, and family—and intrigue, adventure, and romance ride along with them…as always. Back home, Casey reappears, with a problem for Morgan and Alex. Inspired by the unique early 1960s TV series "Route 66."
1. Prologue

**CHUCK VERSUS ROUTE 66—PART ONE (Chuck 6-05)**

Sequel to "Chuck Versus The Amber Alert" (you might want to read that first if you haven't), and the fifth episode of an imaginary sixth season of _Chuck_.

Chuck and Sarah take a road trip from L.A. to Chicago to see Ellie, Awesome, and family—and intrigue, adventure, and romance ride along with them…as always. Back home, Casey reappears, with a problem for Morgan and Alex.

Inspired by the unique early 1960s TV series _**Route 66**_ (for examples, see the _Route66TVShow_ channel on_ YouTube)._

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry for the extended wait! "Season 6" is back, and hitting the road to boot. Please enjoy; please comment early and often with a review—please tell me what you think of any aspect of this story! As always, your encouraging reviews, follows, and favs keep me at this thing. I'm much obliged to my readers—all of you!

**P.S.** There are a handful of _Route 66_ stories in the FF archive. This story will be very different from those.

**Disclaimer:** I certainly do not own the unique late 2000s-early 2010s TV series _Chuck_ or any of its characteristic characters…but where is _Chuck_ now anyway, other than in the hearts of its fans?

* * *

_**"Hi—I'm Chuck! Here are a few things you might need to know, or maybe just forgot…."**_

_(Flashback to Chuck and Sarah kissing on the beach at Malibu…she lovingly tells him, "I want this, Chuck. I want to be with you.")_

_(Flashback to Ellie in Las Vegas, reconciled with Sarah, and asking of her, "One thing you do have to promise me…Come to Chicago…for a few routine tests. __I'd like to be able to give you a clean bill of health once and for all.")_

_(Flashback to Chuck viewing the Key—his father's last invention—with awe, as his mother Mary insists, "The future of the Intersect must remain the charge of _our_ family.")_

_(Flashback to Professor Fleming counseling his former student, CIA agent Juanita Saldana, after the Deep Skillet affair: "__Wait and watch…I think we should give him some rope—and if he shows any signs of imminent success, then we reel him right back in.")_

_(Flashback to Ellie teleconferencing with Chuck in Castle: "My new neuroengineering lab is almost completely set up…how soon can I have those Keys?"…and Chuck replying, __"Just a few more days…Sarah and I are planning to take a road trip!")_

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

**A Saturday afternoon in May 1997, at a high-end used-car dealership in Los Angeles**

Con-man Jack Burton, looking like every dime of a million bucks in a perfectly tailored suit and diamond Rolex, runs his fingers admiringly and knowingly over the sleek sapphire-blue finish of a mint 1962 Chevy Corvette convertible.

"My goodness," he tells the salesman with a delighted smile, "this baby's so beautiful! I know I've seen one of these before—exact same color, same year—can't place it though…maybe on TV…?"

The salesman laughs. "I guess we're both old enough to remember. _'Route 66'_…that old series from the sixties? George Maharis? Marty Milner? They drove a blue '62 Vette that was _exactly_ like this one. Great theme song. Bet you're thinking of that, aren't you…?"

"_Riiight!"_ Jack slaps him on the back. "Well that makes it even better! But how's she perform? Out on the open road I mean?"

The salesman jangles a set of keys. "There's only one good way to find out."

"Just what I was hoping to hear," replies Jack. "I assume you'll want to see my driver's license."

"Yes," says the salesman, looking embarrassed, "and I'm afraid you'll have to leave a credit card too. I'm sorry, it's company policy—"

"No problem," Jack coolly assures him, and produces a thick black leather wallet. He thumbs through the cards inside, slips two out, and proffers them to the dealer, who studies them for a moment. Both the California driver's license and the triple-platinum credit card identify their bearer as Curtis Van Dort.

"Very good, Mr. Van Dort," the dealer says eagerly—scenting a big sale. He hands over the driver's license and the keys. "Now you be sure and take her out on the freeway—you'll absolutely fall in love with her acceleration and handling."

Jack smiles Cheshire-cat wide. "I'll definitely be sure to do that."

* * *

_(Music: "Run, Baby, Run," by Sheryl Crow)_

Several blocks away, a lanky teenage girl in blonde bangs, braces, and jeans sits sullenly on a bench, in a pocket park in a quiet neighborhood. She has her knees drawn up close to her chest and her arms wrapped around her long skinny legs. She's listening to a portable cassette player through headphones. A grey duffel bag is close by her side.

When Jack pulls up on the street in front of her in the blue Corvette, lightly tooting its horn and waving at her, she does a stunned double-take—but then immediately reverts to form, rolling her eyes and sighing dramatically.

"Told ya I'd get us back to San Diego in time!" he exclaims as he leaps out of the driver's seat and runs over to the bench where she sits. "And you wanna talk about style! Quick, darlin'—the license plate—and lend me your knife, would y'please?"

The blonde teenager slips her headphones down to her neck, and unhurriedly reaches into the duffel bag. She removes a maroon-and-white Arizona license plate, then extracts a folding knife from her jeans pocket, and hands them both to Jack.

He scans the surroundings to make sure that nobody is watching, then crouches down behind the Corvette and gets to work unfastening the California dealer plate with the blade of the knife.

Suddenly irritated, the girl jumps up from the park bench and puts her hands on her hips.

"_Daaad_…you're not supposed to do _that_ with a knife!"

"It's okay, darlin'. I'll be careful." Jack replaces the rear dealer plate with the Arizona plate, then quickly moves to the front of the car to remove the second dealer plate.

"See—done already!" He drops the California plates into a storm-sewer grating in the curb, then folds the knife closed and gives it back to his daughter.

"Grab your things and let's go!" he instructs her. "Oh—and darlin'…?"

He jangles the keys.

"You can drive."

She softly gasps and her jaw drops. Her eyes gleam as she reaches out to touch the mirror-bright finish….

_(Music: "Run, Baby, Run," by Sheryl Crow…echoes away in a flash forward to…)_

* * *

**A Saturday afternoon in May 2012, at a luxury rental-car dealership in Los Angeles**

…_and the face of that awed teenage girl reflects back at her…._

Momentarily lost in reverie, Sarah runs her fingers over the flawless finish of a 1962 Corvette convertible in sapphire blue. Nearby, Chuck had been eyeing a sunset-orange Ford Mustang Cobra, but one look at his wife tells him that the selection of their ride is over and done with. He smiles and waves to the rental agent.

"Ahh! Great choice!" pipes the agent. "That Vette is a fifty-year-old classic! And it's a resto-mod—that means that the look is all 1962, but under the hood and where the rubber meets the road, it's completely up to date."

"Great," says Chuck. "Gotta figure that it's getting pretty tough to find 1962 parts."

"Well sure," counters the rental agent, "but that doesn't really matter because for a nominal surcharge, you can get full road service and repair coverage anywhere you go. And…umm…where _are_ you planning to go…if I may ask?"

"Chicago," Sarah replies, still gazing dreamily at the blue Corvette.

"Assuming it's possible to arrange a one-way rental?" Chuck asks.

"Of course…of course," the agent effuses. "Just a matter of another nominal fee." Chuck and Sarah look resignedly at each other: both of them envisioning dollar signs materializing behind the man's dark sunglasses, where his eyes had been.

The agent takes an iPad and stylus in hand and begins to draft the rental agreement.

"L.A. to Chicago, huh?" he asks. "So you could travel old U.S. Route 66. And nothing could be more perfect for that than a '62 Corvette convertible."

"What do you mean?" asks Sarah, joining Chuck as he walks slowly around the car, examining it for any scratches or dents.

"There was an old, old black-and-white TV show about two guys traveling 66 in a Vette a lot like this one, and getting into all kinds of exciting adventures. Dunno if you ever saw it, but I bet it's on Netflix."

"Well…we're certainly looking forward to a fun drive," notes Chuck, "but hopefully a touch lighter on the excitement."

"You never know," says the agent with a conspiratorial smile. "This particular blue Vette's already got quite a few interesting little tales tied to it. It's even been stolen—at least once—so I've been told."

Sarah gulps—though quietly enough that only Chuck hears her. When he responds with a mystified look, she mouths _I'll explain later_. Chuck nods and raps gently on the trunk lid.

"D'ya think it's got enough room in the trunk for our junk?"

"We won't need that much room, sweetie." Sarah takes his hand and turns toward the rental agent. "We're traveling light. Just like spies!"

"Didn't think spies traveled much by car these days," the rental agent replies, turning back to his iPad. "It's all done with satellites and drones now, I hear."

"Well, call us retro then," says Chuck.

"Or maybe resto-mod," Sarah suggests, and playfully shoulder-bumps her man.

* * *

**Later that afternoon, at the Bartowskis' home**

"I'm all set, babe. And look—_ta-daaa!" _

Chuck gestures proudly toward the open suitcase atop their brass bed. His clothes and toiletries take up less than half the space inside. Sarah—carrying her own comparably compact stack of folded dresses, blouses, slacks, and lingerie—tucks it in alongside his stuff and nods approvingly.

"That's packing light all right," she remarks. "Excellent tradecraft."

"Just like you taught me."

Sarah reflects for a moment. "Must've been Paris—going AWOL together—wasn't it?"

"Exactly!" They beam at each other, thrilled by Sarah's impromptu recollection. She moves in for a celebratory kiss, and Chuck takes her in his arms.

"Then there was the mission in Milan," he continues. "You showed me how to get full stealth outfits and formal wear for both of us into a carry-on."

Sarah looks up at him. "I don't remember that one," she murmurs.

"Not even the part when you rescued me from that nude gun-toting supermodel?"

Sarah snorts a laugh into his chest. "Okay. _Now_ I remember. Not sure we really needed to revisit _that."_ She nestles close to him for a little while longer, listening to his heartbeat. Eventually, she eases away to fetch her own toiletry bag, set it in their suitcase, and close it up.

"That's that. Now how about the package?"

"Ready to travel." Chuck takes a smaller, impact-resistant case off their dresser, opens it to inspect the five Keys within one more time, then closes it and activates both of its heavy-duty digital combination locks.

He hands that case to Sarah and picks the suitcase up off the bed. The two of them go downstairs and out to the rented blue Corvette parked in their driveway. Sarah pops the trunk and stands aside to let Chuck stow the suitcase first. Then she leans over with the smaller case….

* * *

_The view of the case in Sarah's hands suddenly morphs to a transmitted image of the same view—displayed on the screen of an iPad in the hands of a woman spying on Chuck and Sarah from another location. All we see of her are slender, dusky fingers and cinnamon-red-painted, precisely trimmed fingernails._

_One of those fingers softly, confidently taps on the frame of the iPad as the screen shows Sarah lowering the case into the trunk of the Corvette and closing the lid._

"Eso es perfecto,"_ the woman says to herself._

* * *

Chuck holds the driver's side door open for his wife before climbing into the shotgun seat beside her. As methodically as if they had rehearsed it, Sarah and Chuck smooch—then fist-bump each other—then don brand-new pairs of sunglasses, before Sarah gracefully backs the Corvette out of the driveway.

"You think this is the same car?" Chuck asks her.

She replies with a shrug. "Not sure yet. I have to get it out on the highway first."

Chuck grins and squeezes Sarah's knee. "Kinda fun to think that it _could_ be, isn't it?"

"Exactly."

They cruise away from their peaceful neighborhood, headed for the open road to points east….

_(And the opening credits roll—but this time, the titles scroll over a scene of Sarah and Chuck in the Corvette, blazing across the wide expanse of California's Mojave Desert on an otherwise deserted two-lane stretch of old U.S. 66, with the setting sun at their back, to the jaunty accompaniment of the "Route 66 Theme" by Nelson Riddle and His Orchestra.)_


	2. Chapter 1

**CHUCK VERSUS ROUTE 66—PART ONE (Chuck 6-05)**

The fifth episode of an imaginary sixth season of _Chuck_.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Chuck_ but I thank the folks who do, for letting us FF writers keep on playing with their toys!

* * *

**CHAPTER 1**

**Saturday night, in the desert of westernmost Arizona**

_(Music: "Western Sky," by Those Darlins)_

Sarah isn't inclined to cling to the tame Interstate highway, even after night falls. Once she and Chuck have crossed the Colorado River and left California, she steers the Corvette onto another remote segment of old U.S. Route 66: a narrow two-lane that climbs sinuously through a rugged, eerie landscape of rounded granite boulders and bristly Joshua trees. As Sarah enjoys putting the Corvette through its paces on the backcountry desert road, Chuck is content to lean way back in his leather bucket seat, to revel in the evening warmth, and look far up into the star-spangled sky.

Until Sarah interrupts his stargazing with a request, voiced just above the whistle of the desert air streaming past their speeding vehicle:

"Umm…sweetie?"

"Mmm? Yeah, babe?"

"I need a pit stop. We're out in the middle of nowhere, I know—but would you see if there's some place with a half-decent restroom in the next twenty or so miles?" She points to the iPhone resting between them on the center console.

"Sure thing." But before Chuck can even reach for the phone, he spontaneously _flashes_…road maps and travel-guide listings kaleidoscope through his mind…then he shudders once and his eyes refocus.

"Uh…yeah. Yeah, and close. There's an old mining town—more tourist trap now—called Goldroad, six miles ahead over the next ridge. Gas station's probably closed but there's a bar and grill that'll still be open."

Sarah glances over at him. "Thanks…but did you just flash on that?"

"Yeah," Chuck replies. "Not intentionally."

"What's up with _that?_ You weren't in any danger this time."

"Well maybe this time it's 'cause _you're_ in need, babe—"

Sarah shakes her head. "Having to pee doesn't exactly qualify as a deadly emergency, Chuck. I mean…I can always pull off the road." Then—a second later and in a more solicitous tone, she asks him, "You _are_ gonna tell Ellie about these reflex flashes you've been having…right?"

"'Course I am."

"Good. Because if you don't, I will." She takes his hand and caresses it—then hammers the accelerator.

Minutes later, they crest a pass and slow down for the approach into Goldroad, Arizona. It's a tiny burg that consists mostly of a few kitschy souvenir shops with western-style false fronts, asleep for the night and stretched along a single street beneath a rocky hillslope scarred by old mine workings and dun-colored tailings piles. A herd of feral burros, obviously accustomed to people and their vehicles, loiters near the only service station, in the center of the town. The self-serve pumps appear to be working but—as Chuck predicted—the mini-mart and restrooms are locked.

Just ahead, all manner of pickup trucks with gun racks, high-clearance SUVs, jeeps, and motorcycles are parked thickly along both sides of the street: two lines leading straight to the one establishment still open in town: a throbbing, neon-splashed honky-tonk in a sagging, sprawling old ranch-house sort of structure. A big rooftop sign illuminated in garish blue and yellow announces: GOLDROAD BAR AND GRILL—LIVE MUSIC NITELY.

Still several blocks away, Chuck and Sarah can already hear the fiddle, steel guitar, and bouncy vocals of a Western swing band playing full-tilt inside the joint. Laughing, rowdy-looking men and women—some in cowboy hats, some in ball caps, and some in biker leathers—flit in and out of the doors, and cluster in shadows all around. There aren't any parking spaces up close, so Sarah brings the blue Corvette to the front, takes it out of gear, and looks imploringly at her husband.

"Chuck—I've really, _really_ got to go now_._ Would you please find a place to park so I can run inside?"

"Of course, babe."

Sarah's already out of the vehicle. Whether it's her striking appearance in a form-fitting black aviator jacket, or the novelty of the sleek half-century-old resto-mod sports car—or some combination of both—more than a few of the patrons standing outside are already staring.

"I'll come after you soon as I get this parked," Chuck says. But rather than get out and walk around to the driver-side door, he swings his left leg over the center console, intending to slide across from the passenger seat to the driver seat.

Walking briskly and a little stiffly toward the front door of the honky-tonk, Sarah pauses to glance back and chuckle at his ungainly move. "Hey, be careful there, sweetheart," she warns him. "Don't you go breaking anything I'll need later on—if ya know what I mean!"

"No worries about that!" Chuck jauntily fires back, as Sarah blows him a kiss and hurries into the building. But with his attention thus briefly diverted, he's hooked the right side pocket of his jeans on the shifter knob. Spread-legged, with his left foot on the floor perilously close to the clutch pedal, and his right foot still wedged under the passenger seat, Chuck is stuck.

"_Hmm,"_ he mutters, taking stock of his situation, "_this sure wasn't optimally built for tall people." _Chuck wiggles his butt to try and free himself. Instead, he accidentally taps the clutch with his left foot, and the Corvette shifts into reverse!

The car starts rolling backward toward a row of black-and-silver Harley-Davidson motorcycles parked near the entrance. Alarmed and unable to work the shift lever, Chuck yanks on the steering wheel. The Corvette swings away from the bikes—out into the middle of the street, accelerating in reverse in the wrong lane.

_(Screeee—HAWNNK!)_ An oncoming Dodge Ram pickup narrowly swerves out of the way as the Corvette hurtles backward toward it.

"_Crazy sumbitch! You wasted or what?"_

"_Pardon me!"_ Chuck yells back at the driver. He manages to steady the wheel with his left hand while working on extricating his jeans pocket from the shifter with his right. The Corvette continues in reverse along the centerline of the main street. Chuck looks over his shoulder and glimpses the headlights of the next oncoming vehicle: an 18-wheel semi-trailer, just coming down the grade into town.

"_Now what?"_ he asks himself, hearing a distant throbbing grumble as the semi driver hurriedly applies the jake brakes. On the edge of his field of vision, Chuck spots the service-station driveway coming up fast on his left side. He holds his breath and pulls on the steering wheel. The Corvette gracefully pivots off the street and backs into the driveway well before the groaning semi arrives. Chuck realizes that in the process of turning sharply, he's slipped free of the shifter, so he immediately whips his right leg over, and lunges for the clutch and then the brake. He's ended up safely parked in a perfectly good place at the rear of the service-station lot.

"Let's leave the backwards driving to Sarah," Chuck resolves, shaking his head, as he throws on a light jacket and heads up the street to find her.

* * *

_(Music: "House of Blue Lights," by guest stars Asleep at the Wheel)_

The first thing Chuck sees after stepping into the packed, smoky, sweaty honky-tonk is an array of pool tables under hanging stained-glass beer lights, all in active use by a clutch of leather-garbed folk who appear to be the Harley owners. The Western swing band, seven members strong, is playing hard on a stage at one side of the expansive room, surrounded by a number of dancing couples. In the midst of it all is a weatherbeaten wooden bar, packed with revelers drinking and gabbing beneath tall mirrors and shelves of liquor. Chuck locates the restrooms in the back corner. There's a long line for the ladies' room, and Sarah's in it: two places shy of the door.

He joins her. Sarah looks at him, frowns, and bites her lower lip.

"Poor baby," he says. "I can try smuggling you into the men's room. No line."

"It's all right—I'm almost there now," she replies. "You could wait for me at the bar."

"'Kay. Get you something while I'm over there?"

"Thanks—but it's a little difficult to think about drinking anything at the moment."

"Right. Sorry 'bout that." Chuck kisses Sarah, then crosses the room and squeezes through a three-deep row of patrons to reach the bar, the top of which is covered in colorful Mexican ceramic tiles and cluttered with bottles and glasses showing various levels of consumption. The rollicking music is much louder here.

The nearest of three busy bartenders—a short, buxom, greying blonde—brings out a rag to wipe down the bar in front of Chuck, then grins up at him and loudly asks, "What'll ya have, hon?"

"I'd really like an ice water," he quickly replies.

The bartender wasn't anticipating that. "Ohhh…kaay…Anything else?"

Suddenly mindful of standing out as a hopeless dweeb, Chuck says, "Sure. Whisky…yeah—whisky chaser."

"What brand, hon?"

"Oh…I dunno…Johnny Walker Black, I guess."

She turns, and a moment later sets a generous shot of whisky and a beer mug full of ice water down in front of him. Chuck leaves a ten-dollar bill on the bar and hoists the shot glass.

"To you, John Casey…wherever you are." He drains the glass. The whisky burns going down, but Chuck channels the tough ex-Marine and neither coughs nor grimaces. He sighs, trades the empty shot glass for the mug of ice water, and turns to look back toward the ladies' room. Sarah's no longer in the line outside the door.

Then Chuck shifts his focus to the pool tables. At the table nearest to him, an incongruous pair of opponents—a slender baby-faced man who barely seems old enough to be in the bar legally, and a craggy, bearded mountain of a biker—are playing ten-ball. It doesn't look like much of a contest to Chuck. The biker sinks shot after shot, while the young man muffs nearly all of his. He somehow gets a few lucky shots in, but the biker makes short work of him. The big man belly-laughs, snatches up a cocktail glass hidden under the pool table, and empties it of a wad of twenties stuffed within. Then he looks around for a new challenger.

But instead, as Chuck looks on, the baby-faced man confers with one of the other spectators, a silver-mustachioed figure in a gleaming white Stetson and turquoise bola, and whispers something in his ear. Mustache man nods, reaches into his pocket, and passes a hundred-dollar bill to the young man. Baby-face steps back to the table and waves the bill at the biker, who grunts and racks the balls once more—

Just then, Chuck is startled when a pair of soft, warm lips plant a moist kiss against the back of his neck. The kiss feels nice, but strangely unfamiliar. He turns to discover that his stealthy attacker isn't Sarah, but—

"_Carina?"_

The sexy DEA agent, his wife's former partner and friendly rival, stands before him in a chambray blouse, tight jeans with a silver concha belt, and mauve ostrich-skin boots, with her long red-gold hair tightly braided on either side of her head. With this look she blends in perfectly with most of the female patrons in the place.

"Heeey Chuck, how's it hangin'?"

"Carina—what the hell are you doing _here?_ Does Sarah know you're here?"

"Yeah. We already said hi in the girls' room."

Just then, Sarah pops in through the crush of cowboys, cowgirls, and bikers. She must have seen the kiss, because she frowns disapprovingly at Carina and stands a little bit in front of Chuck, as if to shield him from any more playful assaults.

"Quite the coincidence, dear," she says pointedly.

"Well…you know I'm bad, I'm nationwide," Carina replies. "Just stands to reason we'd meet up sooner or later." She looks around the room with an expression of mild disgust. "Wouldn't have figured in a dump like _this_ though."

"Are you working?" Sarah asks.

"Like I'd tell a couple of civilians anything!" snorts Carina. "Is Martin here?"

"Morgan," Chuck corrects her. "And no—it's just the two of us."

"And a '62 Corvette," adds Sarah.

"Just the two of you on a road trip? Sounds tedious." Carina cocks her head and looks knowingly at them both. "Come to think of it…it's mid-May…your wedding anniversary's coming up, isn't it?"

"It's on Wednesday," Sarah quickly replies, and slips an arm around Chuck.

"Hmm. You seem to be over that amnesia thing I heard about. Good." Carina's eyes twinkle. "So do you remember when I tried to seduce your asset? _Twice?"_

"To no avail," retorts Chuck with a laugh, and Sarah smiles at him.

He gestures toward the billiards area and continues, "Whatever you're here for, Carina, I'd bet it has something to do with that pool-playing kid over there."

Carina looks impressed. "Nice. You may have left the biz but your spydar's still in working order, I see. And what the hell—you're gonna watch it all go down in a few minutes anyway…."

She draws in closer to Sarah and Chuck and lowers her voice.

"The kid's a shark, a natural. He's in with the mustache guy, who's a major regional distributor for the Palomas cartel. They've been sandbagging their mark—that hairy lardball soon to be taken to the cleaners—he's the leader of the Hells Javelinas motorcycle club."

"They're already breaking the law just with the gambling," Sarah points out.

"I'll let the sheriff worry about that," Carina retorts.

"I see," says Chuck. "They get the biker boss in their debt and then put 'im to work?"

"Bikers as drug mules? Now _there's_ an original idea," Sarah scoffs.

"But it still works, given the right circumstances," replies Carina. "Those bikers happen to be on their way to a major outlaw rally in Idaho and Palomas wants to move product that way. They'll pay handsomely for a safe delivery."

She glances over at the Stetson-hatted mustache man, who seems wholly focused on the new game between his young hustler and the biker boss. "But I could care less about the grungy Javelinas—I'm here to land the bigger fish."

"I assume you aren't working alone," Chuck notes.

"Course not, Chuckles. Anyway…you two vagabonds oughtta do a little dancing, have a drink—and watch for when the _real_ show gets going." Carina reaches out to give Chuck's butt a quick squeeze—before Sarah sharply swats her hand away—then grins at them both and melts back into the crowd.

Sarah looks at her husband and rolls her eyes, then slips her arms around his neck to pull her face up close to his.

"We don't have to stick around here if you don't want…." she begins.

He chuckles at that. "You know we _both_ want to see how the deal goes down."

* * *

_(Music: "Get Your Kicks On Route 66," by guest stars Asleep at the Wheel)_

Forty minutes later, Chuck and Sarah are swinging and spinning around with the other couples in the swelling crowd in front of the stage. Enjoying themselves immensely, exchanging tender looks and occasional kisses as they dance, the Bartowskis also keep watch on the action at the pool tables, and track Carina's movements around the room as best as they can.

"_I think we're holding our own out here,"_ Chuck murmurs in Sarah's ear.

"_We are,"_ she murmurs back. _"Especially since neither of us ever danced western swing before. Glad it was in the Intersect."_

"_It's different, huh…_me_ teaching _you_ the steps this time?" _

Sarah laughs and nuzzles his neck—before leaning back, her hands clasped in his, for another energetic whirl around the floor in time to the catchy music. But before the song ends, they hear loud and angry words coming from the billiards area. They turn that way in unison—just in time to see the leader of the Hells Javelinas lay his cue stick on the table and hurry out through the front door, followed by a dozen or so of his comrades. Immediately afterward, the mustache man slips out after them. The baby-faced hustler stands alone at the table, still holding his own pool cue, looking confused.

Chuck pulls Sarah close again and whispers, _"I don't think this is part of the plan. Can you spot Carina?"_

"_No…wait…yes, there she is, over by the wall. She's talking to someone through her earpiece. Not even bothering to conceal it. She must've been caught way off guard. C'mon!"_

Sarah grabs Chuck's hand and tugs him off the dance floor, over to intercept Carina, in a dim corner near the restrooms. The DEA agent is still barking orders at her unseen associates, but her voice is masked by the loud music and banter all around.

"What's wrong?" Sarah asks her.

"Some drunk cowboy just backed his dually into the Javelinas' bikes out front!"

"Wow. Pretty stupid…drunk or not," offers Chuck.

"Yeah, well, the bikers ran out there in force, and the pickup driver's got his pals backing him too. Looks like a major fight's brewing—I'm worried mustache man might freak and run before he can do the deal."

"Not to mention, his baby shark's looking like a fish out of water right about now," Chuck adds, nodding toward the billiards area.

"I know and that's another problem," replies Carina. "I need some way to keep the kid at the table until we can stabilize the situation outside. Any ideas?"

She laughs hollowly at an abrupt, crazy thought. "I don't recollect blondie being all that good at pool—but what about you, Chuckles?"

Carina wasn't expecting Chuck to reply "I can do it. You've gotta stake me though."

Sarah is bewildered for just a half-second, until she realizes what her husband is thinking. Then she pats his shoulder. "Chuck _can_ do it. No question."

"I don't know," says Carina hesitantly. "We can stake you, but you can't just saunter over there as dapper Agent Carmichael on a lark and get in the game—not in _this_ kind of place."

"She's right, sweetie," adds Sarah. "You need a more authentic cover."

Behind them, the door to the men's room opens—and out steps another member of Hells Javelinas, in a blue bandana and black leather vest. As he squeezes past them on his way back to the bar, he smiles politely at Sarah and Carina—who gape at each other in surprise—then swiftly seize the hapless biker by the shoulders and shove him into the ladies' room. Fortunately there's no longer a line of ladies waiting their turns to use it.

* * *

Baby-face can't figure out what to do. His mark has fled—leaving his cue right there on the table—and the stakehorse from the cartel has gone after him. To this point the kid has let slip only the barest evidence of his skill, but that was enough for him to have already won most of the biker's bankroll, so the other players are circling his table warily, none caring to jump in….

…That is, until an uncharacteristically tall, slim, and clean-shaven Hells Javelina wearing a blue bandana and ill-fitting leather vest—with a sizzling, gum-cracking, blonde tramp hanging drunkenly on his arm—drifts over from the general direction of the bar.

Chuck looks the hustler in the eye and says, "Buddy L said I should take over here 'til he gets done kickin' them cowboys' asses."

Sarah giggles and loudly snaps her chewing gum. Chuck looks at the young man again and shakes his head—as if asking for sympathy—then slips his arm free of her grasp and helps her onto a nearby barstool. She blows him a loud kiss and waves, acting as though the effort almost causes her to tumble from her seat.

Baby-face watches all this and then asks, "Did Buddy L bother to tell ya we were playin' for five benjamins a game before he split? You good for that, pal?"

Chuck reaches for a wad of bills in his vest pocket. For the first time, he notices that the young hustler is wearing a hefty gold-and-diamond ring on his right hand. He counts out five one hundreds, and stuffs them in the empty cocktail glass concealed beneath the table. Then he picks the biker boss's cue off the table and hefts it, gauging the weight and balance.

"Okay," says the young man as he deposits his own money in the glass to match Chuck's bet. "Lag for the break?" He sets the seven-ball and nine-ball on the table behind the head string, and he and Chuck simultaneously bounce them off the far cushion. Baby-face's ball halts about a centimeter closer to the near cushion than Chuck's ball does.

"Yaaay—_hic!—_schhweetie!" Sarah cries—way too loud and slurring her words. "You—_hic!—_rock!"

Chuck sighs, and patiently tells her, "He won the lag, babe."

"Oh. Well…you still rock." She leans forward and stares at the table, feigning an attempt to get bleary eyes to focus—and not incidentally, better displaying her cleavage.

"Nice cheering section," says the hustler as he racks the billiard balls. "But do you think you can keep her quiet?"

Hearing this, Sarah sits upright with a stern face and dramatically puts a finger to her own lips—then hiccups again, and breaks out in an unstifled, sputtering giggle.

"Easy, babe," Chuck gently chides. Unseen by his opponent, he winks at his wife.

Over on the stage, the band sets down its instruments for a breather, and the dancing couples diffuse back into the general crowd. Most of them head to the bar. Somebody sticks a debit card in the jukebox and orders up a recorded song.

_(Music: "Dim Lights, Thick Smoke," by Dwight Yoakam)_

Baby-face breaks and pockets the six ball—then studies the remaining configuration on the table, points to a corner pocket, and sinks the one ball there. But on his attempt to sink the two ball, his cue appears to slip by a hair's-breadth on the shot, and the ball caroms off the cushion just short of the called pocket.

Before taking his turn, Chuck whispers into Sarah's ear: _"That miss was deliberate. He's testing me. And y'know—Carina never said if I'm supposed to win or lose."_

"_Just do whatever it takes to keep him on the hook,"_ his wife softly suggests—then keeps up her cover with a clumsy, sloppy kiss aimed at Chuck's lips that ends up smooshing against his nose instead.

Smiling, Chuck turns his back to his opponent, bends down close to the green felt—and _flashes._ Body movements, ball configurations, elastic collisions, and imaginary vectors charge his conscious mind. He blinks, takes a few steadying breaths, picks up his cue—then proceeds to call and smartly sink every remaining ball, finishing up with the ten ball.

Baby-face whistles in mild amazement and admiration, but is otherwise unfazed.

"Awesome. Buddy L should've put you in the game a _lot_ earlier, pal. Double or nothin'?"

"Sure…assuming you're good for it."

"Wouldn'a said nothin' if I wasn't." The hustler produces another five hundred dollars and adds the bills to the kitty—then proceeds to win the lag for the break again. And this time, he effortlessly clears the table before Chuck even gets a chance to shoot.

"Break-and-run," says Chuck. "Now _I'm _impressed."

"So now we're even," says baby-face with a shrug. "Wanna go for the gold?" He slips off his fat diamond ring and proffers it to Chuck to examine. "Five carat stone, custom design. High five figures. Got somethin' to cover it?"

"Is that thing even _real?"_ bellows Sarah, swaying atop the stool.

The hustler ignores her comment and looks expectantly at Chuck. Chuck looks to Sarah, who all but imperceptibly nods _yes._ He holds up the keys to their car.

"I think a resto-mod '62 Corvette will suffice. Parked just down the street."

"Really? I'da figured you're ridin' a Hog."

Chuck puts his arm around the young man's shoulder, motions toward Sarah with his head, and quietly says_, "Actually, the car's hers."_

Baby-face chortles. "Geez! I don't know…I win those keys from you, I don't think you'll be gettin' nothin' else from _her_ tonight…."

"Except I'm not going to lose," replies Chuck matter-of-factly.

"Damn—_hic!—_sshhtraight!" slurs Sarah in an authentically dizzy way.

"Suit yourself, pal." The hustler drops the ring and the keys in the cocktail glass beneath the table, and sets up the balls for the lag. The players at the other tables set down their cues to watch. Another group of spectators is looking on from the bar area, and even the musicians on stage seem to be interested in the game.

Hunched forward alongside his opponent, lowering his cue stick into position, Chuck lets the Intersect take control…he shoots…and this time _he_ wins the lag!

He racks the balls, breaks—and sinks both the seven and eleven balls. Smiling thinly but confidently, studying the table as he circles it thoughtfully and _very_ slowly—to delay the completion of the game as much as possible—Chuck envisions the sequence of shots he'll need to win.

For the first time that night, the baby-faced hustler looks a little worried.

Chuck chalks the tip of his cue stick; blows off the loose powder; chalks it again: buying a bit more time for Carina and her agents to solve their problem outside. Finally, he lines up for his next shot—but before he can take it, a basso voice blasting out from behind him nearly causes him to drop the cue stick.

"_Who the hell are _you_ and why've you got on Pinky's colors? What's goin' on here?"_

Man-mountain biker boss Buddy L has reappeared—along with five of his fellow Hells Javelinas—and is glaring furiously at Chuck from the other side of the pool table.

"_Whaat?"_ croaks baby-face. "He's not one of you guys?"

"No, he ain't!" Buddy L vehemently replies. "An' I repeat: who the hell are you—wearin' _my_ lieutenant's vest, usin' _my_ damn pool cue an' probably tryin' to take alla _my money,_ too?"

Chuck slowly sets the cue down and holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

"Wait, wait…I can explain…let me explain…" He looks all around for Carina but can't find her anywhere in the crowd.

Still sitting on the stool, closer to the bikers than Chuck is, Sarah maintains her false appearance of dead drunkenness, but her eyes narrow and her body tenses.

"You're a _damn thief_ is the explanation," roars Buddy L, pointing a fat forefinger at Chuck. "And what'd you do with Pinky? The man whose leather you've got on?"

"Umm…he's fine. Really. I…um…think he's sleeping in the ladies' room."

Buddy L's face reddens and his fists clench, although he hasn't yet made any move that threatens real violence. But one of his younger associates, a stubbly-faced skinhead standing alongside him, seems less inhibited. He has an empty beer bottle in his left hand, and he starts to slap it angrily against his right palm. Sarah watches him carefully.

Chuck slips the vest off and extends it across the pool table toward Buddy L.

"Here. Take it back with my profuse apologies. Sir."

"That ain't gonna cut it, junior. You ain't no sworn Javelina which means you've already desecrated the colors. 'Fraid we can't just let ya walk with nothin' more than an 'I'm sorry.'"

Chuck glares at the big man. "Listen—I'd like us to settle this like gentlemen, but—"

"_Dammit, I've heard enough!"_ the younger Javelina explodes. He raises the beer bottle and takes a menacing step toward Chuck.

"_No—wait!"_ Buddy L yells. He tries but fails to grab his hotheaded comrade—and then Sarah strikes as fast as a diamondback rattler, leaping from her barstool to yank the skinhead's attacking arm downward, while at the same time knocking his feet out from under him! The biker tumbles forward to the floor _(ba-dump!)_ and the beer bottle shatters _(kaassh!) _in his hand.

His scream of pain unleashes chaos. Instantly, it seems that everyone in the immediate vicinity of the billiards area—bikers, ranchers, tourists, barmaids—is fighting! All except for Buddy L, who stands in the midst of the melee with his hammy hand on his forehead, shaking his head and muttering. Cue sticks swing. Fists pound. Booze sprays. Furniture flies. Bouncers come running.

Sarah drops to the floor, rolls under the pool table, and regains her feet beside Chuck. The Bartowskis instinctively assume their preferred back-to-back fighting stance as Chuck flashes on kung fu—and right away, the two of them are quickly and efficiently knocking down attackers, most of whom are neither skilled fighters nor sober.

"_Babe—watch it!"_ Chuck pulls Sarah's head down just as the barstool she had been occupying moments earlier soars _(whooozh!) _over them and _(ker-resssh!)_ smashes through a nearby window.

Just as impulsively as it started, the fight rapidly winds down. The bouncers are eventually able to separate the most stubborn combatants, as others retreat outside to nurse their cuts and bruises. But the bouncers, big-boned and heavily muscled as they are, seem to be studiously avoiding any confrontation with Chuck and Sarah.

"Where the _hell_ has Carina gone to?" demands Sarah angrily, scanning the wreckage all around them. "I am _so_ going to kick her tight little freckled—"

"_Ahem."_ Just beyond arm's reach, the Stetson-hatted mustache man from the Palomas drug cartel and two other men stand calmly with their hands tucked inside their jackets, aiming casually concealed guns at Chuck and Sarah.

"I think you two need to cool down," the mustache man tells them. "Some fresh air is in order. Back door…and you lead the way, please."

Everyone else in the room is too occupied with the aftermath of the fight to notice as the three cartel men shepherd Sarah and Chuck away. They pass through the devastated bar and a hurriedly deserted kitchen—where pots are still simmering on stoves and unserved dinners still wait under heat lamps—outside to the dimly lit rear of the Goldroad Bar and Grill: hard against the rocky hillslope, and cluttered with stacked cases of empty bottles and greasy, stinking dumpsters.

"_What about your gun?"_ Chuck whispers into his wife's ear.

She looks embarrassed.

"_Left it in the trunk. Sorry…Too much of a hurry to get to the ladies' room."_

"_It's all right, babe. We'll figure a way out of this."_

Meticulously, professionally, the bad guys surround the Bartowskis and bring their pistols out into the open.

"We don't know you," says mustache man, "but we know you work for the DEA."

Chuck and Sarah, shoulder to shoulder, offer no reply. They're both too busy scanning their surroundings, seeking an escape route.

"You two have cost our organization a considerable—" another cartel man begins.

"_Hush!"_ mustache man interrupts him—then turns back to Chuck and Sarah and waves at the pockmarked slope rising behind him.

"There are dozens of old mine shafts all over this place. Many remain unsealed and are quite hazardous. Dark…bad air…so many snakes and scorpions…and very, very deep. Who could even guess which shaft to search for your bodies?"

Sarah reaches for Chuck's hand.

"_Might have to chance running for it,"_ she murmurs. _"Pick a dumpster."_

All of them are suddenly transfixed by the high beams of an SUV parked close by! Next comes the _click, click, click_ of semi-automatic weapons being set to fire. Carina, still in her cowgirl outfit—and ten DEA agents in black tactical suits—emerge from behind the glaring headlights with guns out.

"I might have known," sighs mustache man. "The lovely Carina." He sets his pistol on the ground and resignedly holds up both of his hands. His associates do the same.

"Good evening, Ramón," Carina replies. "Gotcha, finally! Would've preferred it was in the middle of your intended transaction with the Sons of Anarchy—but this'll do in a pinch."

She holsters her weapon and then turns, with her hands on her hips, to look harshly at Sarah and Chuck.

"Whoever you two yokels are, and wherever you came from—you should consider yourselves _darn_ lucky that we got here in time to save you. _Darn_ lucky! You can go now…and I suggest you haul ass doin' it!"

"We will…and thank you…ma'am," Sarah sheepishly answers her, playing along.

But as she and Chuck brush past Carina as they leave, the DEA agent whispers, _"I owe you guys one."_

Leading his wife down the sole main street of Goldroad toward the gas station, Chuck asks her, "You did grab the keys when you went under the table…didn't you?"

"Of course I did—it's _me,"_ Sarah answers him with an affectionate smile.

They reach the parked Corvette and climb in. Sarah starts the engine and eases the car out of the gas-station driveway—only to _slam_ the brakes as more than twenty-five Hells Javelinas, accompanied by their women, rumble past on their Harleys: heading west, making good their escape before the county sheriff's deputies arrive at the Goldroad Bar and Grill.

Chuck and Sarah nervously hunker down in their seats, but the bikers just keep rolling by. When the last one passes, Sarah pulls out and points the Corvette east.

"Thank goodness they didn't recognize us," Chuck says fervently.

But Sarah has her eyes on the rear-view mirror, and a second later she replies, "Umm—not so fast."

Behind them, the Javelinas are turning around, with Buddy L in the lead.

"This is not good," observes Chuck.

"Don't freak out, sweetie," Sarah reassures him. "They're not going to catch us."

Once past the crowds lingering around the Bar and Grill and safely out of the town limits of Goldroad, with nothing but another empty, meandering stretch of old Route 66 ahead of them, she floors it. The bikers give chase for a while, but the low-slung, supercharged Corvette with Sarah at the wheel hugs the shadowy curves better than the Hogs can. On the straightaways, the motorcycles top out at 125 miles per hour, but Sarah gets it up to 180. The speedy car soon recedes into a distant red dot.

Eventually, Buddy L raises his arm and slows his bike, and the Javelinas pull into a tight cluster around him on the side of the highway.

"Aren't we supposed to be headed to Idaho anyway?" asks Pinky, the lieutenant—now fully conscious and restored to his bandana and leathers.

"Idaho can wait," Buddy L retorts. "Payback first. We're talking _honor_ here, boys."

"Well, how are we gonna catch—"

The biker boss taps his forehead. "Strategy. There's a shortcut they won't know about."

* * *

**Twenty minutes later, farther out in the desert**

The Hells Javelinas have followed a very rugged dirt road to the top of a broad plateau, stopping beneath a solitary butte carved out of layers of grey and white limestone, where they douse their headlights and scout ahead. Just in front of them, the rough track canters into a steep downgrade that rejoins Route 66 at the end, about a mile away. A single pair of headlights is approaching from the west: Sarah and Chuck's Corvette.

"Told ya this'd work," boasts Buddy L. "We'll be all over 'em in a few seconds."

"Can't wait to get back at that blonde witch," mutters the young skinhead biker. "She got the jump on me back there, that's all." His injured left hand is massively bound up in a crude bandage—so he's had to ride behind his girlfriend as she pilots the Harley for him.

"You shut your pie hole, Bosco!" Buddy L scolds him. "You ain't doin' nothin' to no lady! Me, I'd say you got what you damn well deserved back there. Just that stringbean guy we gotta settle up with—and then we roll on to Idaho."

He leans over his handlebars in anticipation.

"Get ready…leave your lights off and follow me down…."

A Predator drone moving stealthily to the attack is very difficult to spot in broad daylight—and essentially undetectable in the depths of night. The bikers never catch sight of it, nor do they hear it coming until it arrives, and they are immersed in the abrupt, bone-jarring whine of the exotic ultrasonic weapon it deploys. The beam is aimed squarely at the limestone butte towering over their heads, but its peripheral effects are sufficient to cause all of them to drop to their knees, covering their ears in painful distress. Above them, the butte vibrates, shakes, cracks…and its entire front face crumbles into thousands of jagged chunks of limestone—from baseball-sized to truck-sized—that rain down onto the dirt road in a cataclysmic shower.

The Hells Javelinas rise in terror and scatter for their lives.

_(Music: "Western Sky," by Those Darlins)_

Down below, as they pass by on old U.S. Route 66, Chuck and Sarah hear only what sounds to them like a distant slow rumble of thunder: kind of strange, because the velvety late-night sky is devoid of clouds as far as they can see.


	3. Chapter 2

**CHUCK VERSUS ROUTE 66—PART ONE (Chuck 6-05)**

The fifth episode of an imaginary sixth season of _Chuck_.

**A/N:** Thank you to all the readers who have sent in reviews and PMs. Fact is: the more reviews and PMs that come in after each chapter, the faster I write the next chapter! :-)

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Chuck,_ and I don't see that changing any time soon either.

* * *

**CHAPTER 2**

**Early Tuesday morning, in the middle of the computer lab in Castle**

"Wire cutters?"

Morgan makes his request from the top of a stepladder. He's outfitted in technician-style grey coveralls with a Carmichael Industries logo embroidered on the back, and wearing a pair of thick safety goggles.

"Hmm, wire cutters…let's see…."

Alex—wearing matching C. I. coveralls and goggles—rifles through an open toolbox for the cutters and passes them on up.

"Thanks, honey."

Morgan _snips_ a small opening in the ceiling of a cage of fine wire mesh—a cube about the size of a walk-in freezer, which surrounds them top, bottom, and sides—then returns the wire cutters to her. He extends his right thumb and forefinger through the opening to grab two wires dangling from the ceiling, and pull them down into the cage.

"Now…cordless soldering gun?"

"Cordless soldering gun." Alex hands it to him.

Re-sealing the opening properly proves to be more tricky than cutting it open in the first place. Morgan futilely fumbles with the soldering gun for a while, muttering unintelligible but unprintable words under his breath, before he gives up.

Alex—smiling sagely—holds up her hand to take the soldering gun back from Morgan, and then passes up a roll of silvery duct tape.

A few more minutes of work, and they are finished. Morgan comes down from the ladder, and he and Alex step out of the wire-mesh cage through a small door in one side. Morgan mops his brow with a cloth, then takes his lady's hand as they both gaze at their creation with pride. The metallic cube shimmers under the fluorescent lights on the ceiling of Castle.

"Chuck'll be thrilled when he sees this," says Morgan proudly. "We followed his specs to the letter."

"Except for the duct tape," Alex snickers.

"But he never said we _couldn't_ use it—"

She cuts him off with an embrace.

They're interrupted by the abrupt _ping! ping!_ of the proximity alarm in the C. I. headquarters, located directly above them. Somebody is coming up the walk toward the front door of the office complex.

"We don't have any appointments 'til 0930," Alex notes. "Maybe it's a new potential customer."

"It's still kind of early for regular business hours," Morgan says, as he claps his hands in the direction of the nearest monitor screen—and the image of their visitor appears.

"Ohmigod!_ Squeee!"_ Alex shrieks in joy. She and Morgan dash for the secret elevator.

* * *

After administering an extended, loving, fatherly hug to Alex, and a vice-like manly handshake to Morgan, John Casey grins at them in amusement and inquires as to why his daughter and her boyfriend are dressed like a couple of electricians.

"Morgan and I are building a Faraday cage down in Castle!" Alex excitedly replies.

Casey's brow wrinkles. "Faraday cage. Uh huh. And _that_ would be…?"

"Impervious to all electromagnetic signals," Morgan explains. "See, we captured a whole mess of malware—and who knows what other nasty digital intel—from a really bad dude not too long ago. Chuck said that before we try to analyze any of it, we need to be sure it's somewhere safely isolated from all our networks—"

"So…we're building a Faraday cage!" repeats Alex.

Morgan winks at Casey. "Tech work's proven to be a rather heady experience for a criminology major."

"Hunh," Casey grunts. "Bad dude, you say? He have anything to do with…_this?"_

He whips out an iPhone and thumbs the screen to start a video clip playing. Alex and Morgan lean closer for a better look. There's no audio. The two of them are astonished by what they see:

…_it's Alex herself, standing on the sidewalk in downtown San Pedro as the Octopus's henchman Sam Macpherson runs headlong toward her, desperately trying to evade capture by the pursuing CHP Officer Carelli. And then…Alex raises a tranq pistol with a steady hand, and drops the onrushing villain with two darts in his neck…._

After the clip ends, Casey puts down the phone and folds his arms over his chest, waiting for an explanation.

"Hooo…boy," says Morgan softly.

Alex's face flushes, and then she asks, "How did you get that video, Dad?"

"Security cam. Some TV reporter got a hold of it. Don't know how she managed to ID you, but I'm thinkin' social media. Wouldn't surprise me much if the press has access to facial-recognition software now."

"But…but I've been completely off Facebook and Twitter for way more than a year now…!" sputters Alex.

Then she pauses and looks skeptically at her father. "Wait a minute. You're saying this reporter contacted you? How is that even possible?"

"She didn't contact me. She was looking for _you,_ but intel on your current whereabouts has conveniently been suppressed by some kinda executive order—"

"That'd be the 403-g order!" Morgan interjects.

Casey grunts in dismay. "Terrific, numbnuts. So the freakin' FBI's involved too?"

"Dad…you still haven't said how you ended up with that video," Alex insists.

"Your _mother_ sent it to me. That reporter tracked _her_ down."

"Oh no…" Alex murmurs, and buries her face in her hands.

"Exactly," continues her father. "Kathleen had to lie through her teeth and deny that it was you in that video. Right after that reporter left, she called me on the sat phone—in Qatar—and spent the next half-hour ripping me a new one. Said it was all _my_ influence…so on and so forth."

"You did tell her it was just a tranq pistol—right?" asks Morgan.

Alex silences him with a withering glare, then turns back to Casey, looking abashed, and quietly tells him, "I'm sorry about this, Dad…I should have been more careful."

Casey's face softens, and he puts a hand on her shoulder. "Yeah, maybe. But the fact that you were anywhere near a situation like that, I'd say the blame mostly goes to somebody named Bartowski. Mister or Missus. Maybe both of 'em."

Alex vehemently shakes her head. "No, no, no—it wasn't their fault. I was supposed to stay hidden and keep watch. I chose to engage with the suspect…I…I thought he was going to get away, and there was only a second to react. It was my bad judgment. And Chuck and Sarah even chewed me out about it afterwards."

But Casey doesn't seem convinced. "We'll see..after I've had a chat with them. And where is Burbank's favorite power couple, anyway?"

Morgan wordlessly hands his own iPhone to Casey. On screen is a snapshot of the Bartowskis on a street corner in some small Western town. Chuck's standing in the street and Sarah's perched on the curb, draped over him with her arms around his waist and her face nudging his. They're both mugging for the camera with clownish grins, posing with a bronze statue of a man with a guitar. A big mural on a wall in the near background depicts a young woman in the cab of a flatbed truck. A text message with the photo reads _"Howdy from a corner in Winslow, Arizona."_

"They sent that yesterday," comments Morgan. "No idea where they are today."

Casey chuckles in spite of himself. "Walker and Bartowski, running away again? Heard that tune before."

"It's actually a business trip," Morgan replies. "They're carrying five Keys to Ellie in Chicago so she can continue her research on the Intersect."

"Why didn't they just _fly_ to Chicago?"

"Umm…well…Chuck and Sarah wanted more time away together—"

"Not just _wanted_—they needed this!" Alex cuts in. "I mean, look at how happy they are in that picture! They're still _healing,_ Dad."

"And, anyway, _we're_ holding down the fort just fine in the meantime," adds Morgan.

"Hunh!" grunts Casey. "At least until I showed up. All right then—you two are running the show for the time being? Then how do _you_ propose to deal with this TV reporter trying to snoop into C. I.?"

Morgan scratches his head. "I dunno. Call Chuck and Sarah maybe—?"

"You just _said_ that they needed time alone, moron! So how do you do this without involving them? Think, man! Remember what you were taught!"

The bearded one reflects for a moment or two—then looks questioningly at Casey. "You mean we should do a counter-intelligence mission…ourselves?"

Casey smiles with satisfaction. "That's right. Somebody's spying on you, first you assess the threat. Then you take the measures necessary to neutralize that threat—"

Alex is startled. "Neutralize? You mean…you're saying we should…you know…?"

"No, no…nothing that extreme. We just have to find out how seriously you've been compromised…and then we _un-_compromise you."

"So we're gonna sneak into SNN and sabotage 'em?" Morgan asks excitedly.

"Not you…_Me!_ 'Cause I'm the only one in the room who still does that for a living."

Casey winks at them both.

"I'll need some help with the tech support, though."

"And that's what _we_ do for a living," says Alex happily.

* * *

**Near midnight, at the Southland News Network studios in downtown L. A.**

_(Music: "Someone Disappeared," by The Everywheres)_

Disguised as a janitor—in well-worn work garb and heavy-rimmed glasses—Casey wheels his cart into the SNN California Bureau news offices: a cavernous, windowless room that occupies most of the thirty-sixth floor of the network's skyscraper headquarters. The late news program has ended, and most of the desks that fill the offices are empty for a few hours; their desktop monitor screens are scrolling screensaver images of kittens and kids and tropical sunsets. Just a handful of staffers are still working at their stations. Feeds from a number of different news and weather channels are playing silently on an array of high-res screens mounted on one wall.

Several high-tech styled, glass-walled offices extend in a line along another wall—and of these, only one is still lit and occupied. A slender strawberry-blonde woman in business attire, who appears to be in her fifties, sits there behind her desk: intent on her own desktop computer, and typing frenetically.

A camera concealed in his fake glasses transmits an image of the woman back to Castle, where Morgan and Alex are at the C. I. mission control center.

("_Visual confirmation—that's Christine Crocker-Reynolds,"_ says Morgan, speaking to Casey through an earpiece. _"That's your target.")_

"_Roger that," _Casey whispers back. _"Working late. Have to stall until she decides to go home. Guess that means I'll have to do some _real_ cleaning up in here." _

Another woman—younger, Asian-American, in a purple windbreaker—appears at the newsroom door, and quickly strides across to Crocker-Reynolds's office without acknowledging Casey or anybody else in the room. She enters and takes a seat in front of the editor's desk. Crocker-Reynolds looks up from her keyboard and smiles.

"_Whad'ya know,"_ murmurs Casey. _"Based on Kathleen's description I'd say that's the reporter who made contact with her."_

_("Excellent stroke of luck. Move in for the audio.")_

"_Already on it. And let me remind you, jack wagon—_I'm_ the one in command."_

_("Right. Sorry. Carried away there.")_

Casey wheels his cart into an unoccupied office next to Crocker-Reynolds's and flicks on the lights. Only a waist-high wood-frame partition and a window that extends from there to the ceiling separate the two rooms. Already, Casey can almost make out what the two women are saying to each other.

He bends down to pick up a wastebasket, and in the process lets slip a tiny bug—no bigger than his earpiece—onto the floor against the base of the partition.

"…_you didn't believe her when she said it wasn't her daughter…?"_

"_No way, Chrissy. The woman was lying through her teeth. Pretty convincingly, I should add. But we're spinning our wheels unless we find other family, or some acquaintance—and that'd be hard enough _without _the damn FBI blocking every—" _

"_Mazowiecki? Yeah, whatta pain in the tookis. He's so freakin' douche-y…."_

Casey turns his back and mutters, _"You copying all this, Morgan?"_

_("Absotively, big guy. Audio's nice and clear. Standing by for the dongle.")_

"_Not for too long, I hope."_ Casey goes through the motions of dusting off the desk and sweeping the floor in the vacant office as he, Morgan, and Alex continue to eavesdrop on the SNN editor and reporter. In the same manner, he makes his way through three more unoccupied offices before the two women finally show signs of wrapping up their discussion.

Seconds later, as the young reporter rises from her seat to leave—with Crocker-Reynolds, yawning, following right behind—Casey is there waiting. He gives the two ladies a respectful nod.

"You have a nice night, now," he tells them.

"You too," offers Crocker-Reynolds with a weary smile. The young reporter glances at him but says nothing. Even before the two of them have left the newsroom, Casey steps into the office and pretends to tidy up. Once they are gone, he quickly surveys the surroundings and confirms that none of the few remaining staffers is paying him any notice.

Casey puts on work gloves, removes a jellybean-sized digital device from his cart, and plugs it into one of the open USB slots in the back of Crocker-Reynolds's computer.

"_Dongle deployed,"_ he whispers.

The device switches on, and it only takes a second to break through the machine's unexpectedly weak security settings.

_("She needs to put more thought into her passwords,"_ Morgan observes.)

An exact duplicate of the SNN editor's desktop screen pops up on the monitors in front of Morgan and Alex. Through the encrypted link thus established, Morgan begins hacking into Crocker-Reynolds's hard drive, using a search-and-copy worm borrowed from Chuck, looking for any files remotely related to the mission in San Pedro or to Carmichael Industries itself. As data of potential interest—text, images, videos—emerge, the software copies them to a secure drive in Castle, and Alex meticulously logs each upload.

Meanwhile, Casey takes out a broom and begins to sweep the office floor—very slowly and methodically, from one end to the other—while counting out the seconds in his head. Five minutes pass…the transfer goes on and on…and Casey is becoming concerned.

"_This is going to start looking suspicious. Aren't you finished yet? Bartowski would've been in and done three times over by now…!"_

_("Dad…!"_ Alex responds in irritation. _"You know Morgan's doing the best he can!")_

(Stung, Morgan adds, _"We can't _all_ be brilliant hackers with supercomputer brains to boot—now can we?")_

Casey's sixth sense abruptly pings him. He turns toward the door. Crocker-Reynolds is coming back across the newsroom. She's embarrassed.

"Forgot my purse," she tells him, rolling her eyes. "Pretty hard to drive home without my car keys! I'm kind of surprised you're still working in here—my office couldn't have been that messy_—heh, heh—_could it?"

Casey holds his breath. The purse is on the desk in front of the computer, alongside the keyboard. All's well as long as she doesn't look at the back of the machine.

"No, ma'am," he replies. "I'm just new here. Still gettin' into my rhythm I guess."

Crocker-Reynolds seems to have her own sixth sense. She looks at his face much more attentively.

"May I see your ID?"

"Sure thing, ma'am." With his left hand, and still wearing his work gloves, Casey slips the lanyard bearing the forged ID badge of one "V. Cannon" from around his neck, and hands it to her. As Crocker-Reynolds studies the badge, he cautiously slips his gloved right hand into his pants pocket to find the weapon hidden there: a grey plastic device that superficially resembles a Taser. Casey runs his fingers over it until he finds—and disengages—the safety switch.

That action transmits a signal back to Castle.

_("I know what you're thinking, Casey—but you gotta hold on a little longer,"_ Morgan urges him. _"We're nearly done here, I swear. Just seconds! 'Cause once you fire that thing we won't get anything else outta that hard drive….")_

"_I…know…"_ he grumbles through clenched jaws.

"Did you say something?" Crocker-Reynolds asks, looking up.

"No, ma'am. Just clearing my throat. Bad allergies tonight."

"And the smog doesn't help, I know," the news editor says, now evincing sympathy. She gives the lanyard and badge back to Casey and shrugs.

"Sorry about that, Mr. Cannon. Circumstances have had me on edge lately."

"It's no problem, m—"

_(WHAAAANNZZ!)_

A peculiar whirring hum permeates the room, instantly followed by the harsh _snapping _and _crackling_ of a hundred computers and other electronic devices all overloading at the same time—and then, pitch blackness and a pervasive odor of ozone. Casey winces as his earpiece suddenly becomes fiercely hot, and fights the reflex to yank it out of his ear and dash it to the ground.

"_I didn't do it!"_ he growls in pain—although he knows that Morgan and Alex can no longer hear him.

"Of course you didn't, silly," comes Crocker-Reynolds's voice from somewhere in the dark. "It's just another stupid blackout—the second one in less than a month! Don't fret, Mr. Cannon. The emergency lights'll be coming on in just a second." But a slight tension in her voice belies her words of reassurance.

And the emergency lights _don't_ come on. The entire newsroom remains utterly dark. Casey takes advantage: gingerly reaching out for Crocker-Reynolds's computer, and then removing the dongle. It feels warm even in his gloved hand, and it's just as dead as any other digital device in the room. Casey clenches his fist to crush it, and drops the fragments into the trash bag in his janitorial cart. Then he starts to feel his way past the desk toward the office door.

The staffers in the newsroom are jabbering nervously to each other. Crocker-Reynolds hasn't spoken again, but Casey hears the pace of her breathing increase. She's terrified and starting to hyperventilate.

He needs to get away from here before the authorities arrive…but he stops anyway.

"Ma'am? You all right?"

"I'm…claustrophobic…n-need to get out…need lights…." she whimpers.

"Hey!" Casey yells out. "Anybody got any matches? Or a lighter?"

"Of course not!" someone replies indignantly. "Smoking's prohibited in this building!"

"_Hmmgh!"_ grunts Casey. He takes the unused weapon out of his pocket, ponders the situation for a moment, and then drops the device in the trash bag along with the remains of the dongle. He locates Crocker-Reynolds by the sound of her labored breathing, stuffs his work gloves in his pocket, and takes her hand. She grips it frantically, desperately.

"Ma'am," Casey tells her calmly, "I don't think the lights are going to come back on for a while. But don't worry. I'll get you out of here—just hang onto my hand and follow along. You got that?"

"O-okay…okay."

With his free hand out in front of him to feel for objects in his path, Casey slowly, awkwardly leads Crocker-Reynolds out of her office and across the newsroom. Occasionally, he smacks a limb against some piece of furniture, or the frightened editor stumbles over something. Each such incident slows their progress a little more and causes Casey to cuss colorfully—although under his breath.

Eventually, the ungainly pair makes it out to the open hallway, and then to the nearest emergency stairwell. They can see maintenance workers with functioning flashlights rushing upstairs toward them. The first to arrive is a limber young woman, panting hard after sprinting up 36 stories.

"Just…_whoof!..._the upper floors…_whuhh!..._are without…power," she puffs. "About two or three…flights down…there are lights."

"That's good," replies Casey. He shifts Crocker-Reynolds's hand over to grasp the young woman's arm. "Would you mind taking care of this lady? I'm…umm…I'm needed downstairs pronto. In the basement."

"Uhh…sure…I guess I can do that," replies the maintenance worker.

"Thank you for helping me, Mr. Cannon," the SNN editor softly says.

Casey dashes into the stairwell and starts down, passing the maintenance personnel still on their way up, taking three or four steps at a time. The lights are on from the thirty-fourth floor downward. Casey continues without slowing until he reaches the lobby, where police officers and firefighters are pouring in to mix with security guards, more maintenance workers, and confused building occupants. He slips through the chaos out to the street, which is full of emergency vehicles.

As Casey starts to walk away from the scene, somebody slaps a big hand on his shoulder. Instinctively, he grabs the hand and pivots his body, intending to throw the attacker to the ground. But the unidentified man has anticipated this, and uses Casey's own momentum to spin him back against the wall of the SNN building. Before Casey can retaliate, the man steps away from him and holds up his hands.

"Whoa, whoa—relax, man," he says. "Just wanna talk with you a minute." His assailant is equally as tall and nearly as muscular as Casey—and he's wearing a blue FBI jacket. Casey sighs as two other FBI men separate from the crowd of emergency personnel, and flank him on both sides.

"I'm Senior Special Agent Tomas Mazowiecki. And you're Colonel John Casey of the NSA."

"Who?" asks Casey.

"Don't bother, Colonel. I've read your file top to bottom."

"Well then…I don't work for them any more. I'm a consultant for VerbanskiCorp now. ID's in my pocket."

Mazowiecki chortles. "When did Verbanski start marketing janitorial services?"

Somebody else appears: the young female maintenance worker that Casey encountered in the stairwell. She's holding his discarded weapon in a gloved hand.

"Found this in his cart, sir," she tells Mazowiecki, and winks mischievously at Casey.

The FBI agent looks over the device without touching it.

"Hmm…what exactly is this thing, Colonel?"

Casey says nothing.

"You know we're going to figure it out anyway."

More silence.

"S'pose I could just read the label," says Mazowiecki as he bends closer to the weapon. "Uh-_huh!_ Says here it's a...modified directed electromagnetic pulse generator...Volkoff Industries. Helpful of them to put English _and_ Russian labels on it."

He looks at Casey again.

"Now isn't _that_ interesting? 'Cause I'd heard your former CIA partners at Carmichael Industries bought out that old terrorist lock, stock, and barrel last year."

"Must be plenty of those on the black market," Casey observes.

"Well, wherever it came from, it sure did the job." Mazowiecki points up at the SNN tower, where the top four floors are still dark.

"Come on, man," growls Casey, "even _you've_ gotta know that little toy isn't powerful enough to cause that much damage! Somebody else struck first—and with something a helluva lot nastier."

The FBI agent shrugs. "You could be right about that, Colonel. But still, here _you_ are—by all appearances, come to spy on and maybe sabotage the folks who are sniffing around your old friends the Bartowskis. What's ironic here is you needn't have bothered. We're not going to let SNN go public with anything on Carmichael."

"So we're on the same side."

Mazowiecki shakes his head. "Except when we do surveillance it's with a warrant. I worry about details like that. And I really wish I could be certain of your motivation, Colonel. But at this point I can't take anything for granted."

Casey grunts quietly, knowing what is coming next. One of the other FBI agents brings out a pair of handcuffs and steps toward him, as Mazowiecki continues:

"Really hate to have to do this to a true American hero—yeah, I meant it when said I read your file, sir—but Colonel Casey, you are under arrest."


	4. Chapter 3

**CHUCK VERSUS ROUTE 66—PART ONE (Chuck 6-05)**

The fifth episode of an imaginary sixth season of _Chuck_.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Chuck. _I sure miss_ Chuck._

* * *

**CHAPTER 3**

**One year earlier…**

Sarah awakens, intoxicated with joy: _Today is the greatest day of our lives!_

Chuck's holding her hand in both of his…his hands are warm…he's bent forward, kissing her fingers, and that feels _so_ nice…but why's he got_ that look _on his face? She knows that look of his—it means something's gone awry—but what could possibly be wrong _now?_

"Chuck…?"

He looks up…runs his fingers through her hair…smiles bravely. _Bravely?_

"Hey—hey baby, hi, I'm right here."

_Something's definitely wrong._

"You look worried…."

Chuck shakes his head. "No…you know, it's just…it's just wedding stuff."

She wants to sit up, to wrap her arms around Chuck, to hold him close and whisper in his ear…_tell him how happy she is and how much she loves him and how perfect today's going to be._

But she's so tired, so sleepy yet…it must be really early in the morning or something…

She feels herself drifting off—but just before her eyes close, she tells him:

"Don't freak out. We're ready for it."

_It's just jitters. He'll be fine. She'll make sure of it…as soon as she wakes up._

She falls asleep again—for what seems like only seconds—and when she reawakens, Chuck is still there beside her and still holding her hand.

He's crying. He's laughing! Wait…are those really _camo BDUs_ he's got on…?

* * *

**Wednesday morning**

_(Music: "A Question and an Answer," by Tim Jones)_

Sarah wakes up in a wide, billowy, unfamiliar bed—but Chuck's right beside her, his head propped up on one arm, gazing tenderly into her drowsy eyes. He caresses her face and smiles in gentle amusement.

"You were talking in your sleep."

"I was having a crazy dream. Might have been another memory coming back." She sits up against the pillows. "Chuck, did I oversleep or something, the morning of our wedding day?"

He shudders ever so slightly, and says, "More or less."

Before Sarah can ask him anything else, Chuck reaches for the end table beside the bed, and a terra-cotta Pueblo Indian vase that contains a spray of miniature stemmed gardenias. He slips a single fragrant, ivory-colored flower out and places it in his wife's left hand.

"Happy anniversary, baby."

Sarah brings the flower to her nostrils and sniffs it.

"Happy anniversary," she whispers. "I love you."

"I love you too."

Still holding the flower in her left hand, Sarah throws her right arm around her husband and pulls him as close as she can. They kiss ardently, and for a considerable time.

When they pause—mostly so that each can look into the other's smiling face for a moment—Sarah asks, "We're in Santa Fé…aren't we?"

Chuck smiles at her again. "We are. The La Fonda Hotel…on the Plaza. And we scored the El Capitan Suite." He sweeps his arm in a wide arc, encompassing an ample, earth-toned, tile-floored room decorated with Native American and Mexican art.

Sarah gives the room a quick once-over.

"I was so tired last night I barely remember us checking in."

"You could let _me_ drive the Vette a little more often."

"From now on I will. And this room is beautiful. Good work, Mr. Bartowski."

"Why thank you, Ms. Bartowski." They start to kiss again, but a respectful rapping on the door stops them short. Not expecting an interruption, Sarah looks quizzically at Chuck as he slips out of bed.

"I've got it, babe—this is part of my master plan."

He pads barefoot across the tiles as Sarah giggles at the view of his retreating backside: he's wearing white shorts imprinted with little red horned toads.

"Love the boxers," she says.

Chuck smiles at her over his shoulder. "Do ya now? Some mischievous blonde spy with questionable motives picked those out for me."

He throws on a bathrobe before opening the door and exchanging a few quiet words with a man in the hallway. Then he returns bedside, wheeling a two-level stainless-steel breakfast cart that's packed with steaming covered dishes on top and beverages in ice buckets underneath.

"Ta-da!" he proclaims. "Green chile and avocado omelets with smoked wild-boar sausage. Warm corn tortillas. Fresh-picked strawberries. Freshly squeezed orange juice and Mexican dark roast coffee. So what d'ya think, babe?"

Sarah responds with a foxy grin.

"Hmm…what _I_ think…is that I'm glad it's all in chafing dishes—because that fancy breakfast is actually the _second_ thing I intend to enjoy this morning."

"Hi-oh!" Chuck says, and moves the cart a safe distance away from the bed.

* * *

**Many hours later…**

_(Knock! knock!...knock?)_

They'd been dozing—resting up—beneath the soft sheets, with Sarah on her side and curled up like a crescent moon in the center of the bed, and Chuck's body and arms wrapped comfortingly around her from behind.

"_Housekeeping…(knock, knock!)…Hello…?"_ comes a woman's voice from the hallway just outside of their room.

Sarah opens her eyes and softly groans. "Hmmnn…what time is it?"

Chuck blinks and looks over her shoulder toward a clock on the far end table.

"Whoa. It's almost four o'clock."

Sarah chuckles and turns to face him.

"Suppose we should have her come in and make the bed?" she asks.

"Why not," he replies. "And I'm getting hungry anyway. You?"

"Me too. Breakfast was yummy…but I think we worked it all off…_tee-hee!"_

_(Knock! knock! knock!) "Housekeeping!"_

Before either of them can respond, they hear a key going into the lock! Reflexively, Sarah throws herself on top of Chuck—and cries out in the direction of the door:

"_Would you come back in fifteen minutes, please?"_

"Better make that thirty," Chuck wryly suggests.

* * *

**After a half-hour…or so**

In the suite's spacious bathroom, Sarah and Chuck—just out of the shower and clad in bathrobes—stand alongside each other at a wide mirror. Chuck is shaving, Sarah is brushing her hair, and they're both talking excitedly about their plans for a night out in the historic city.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the closed bathroom door, the young maid is straightening out their disheveled king-sided bed. Fit and trim but small of stature, the dark-haired woman can make only one side of the bed at a time, but she does so efficiently. She slips fresh sheets over the right side of the mattress, and then moves around to the left side. As she bends down to tuck the sheets in, something on the tile floor beneath the bed catches her eye. The maid bends lower for a better look—and _screams!_

Startled, Chuck nicks his jaw_—"Ow!"—_with the razor.

Sarah involuntarily winces, in sympathy—then immediately gasps as something else occurs to her.

"Chuck, where's my gun?"

"Uhh…under the bed, where you left it last n—"

Sarah drops her hairbrush in the sink and bursts out of the bathroom. Chuck slaps his forehead and runs after her. The maid is backing away from the bed in fear, and is already halfway to the exit.

"It's okay. It's okay—um—Rita, right?" says Sarah, who is just able to read the young woman's name badge from across the room. "You just saw a gun there under the bed, didn't you?"

She turns her head toward her husband, and in a singsong voice murmurs, "Sweetheart, I _thought_ we_—you—_were going to lock that in the safe."

"There wasn't enough room," Chuck replies sheepishly. "Not with the—you know—the _package_ in there. Sorry, babe…I forgot to tell you."

Sarah rolls her eyes at him, then turns back toward Rita—who's still slowly moving away from them.

"We're sorry we alarmed you like that," says Sarah, in a calm, reassuring tone. "But you needn't worry—the gun's not loaded, and I'm licensed to carry it."

"And we're not crooks," adds Chuck. "The two of us used to work—"

"In law enforcement," Sarah interjects.

Hearing that, Rita stops just short of the door, although she still looks frightened.

"We—of all people—should have been more careful," continues Sarah, as she reaches under the bed, grabs her pistol, and slips it inside of her robe.

Rita shakes her head. "No ma'am…sir…it's okay. I've seen guns in guests' rooms before. It's just that today…I'm kind of…I'm…" Her voice trails off before she finishes her explanation.

"Is something wrong?" Chuck asks, after it's clear that she isn't going to go on.

The maid shakes her head again, takes a deep breath, and composes herself. "Oh, no. No, sir, nothing's wrong. It's all right. I'll finish making up your room and then I'll be on my way."

Chuck opens his mouth to say more, but Sarah gently puts a hand on his arm and nudges him out of the room.

"Let's let her do her job, sweetie. She's had enough hassles from us."

Back in front of the bathroom sink, Sarah examines her husband's nicked jaw.

"You're bleeding a little." She takes a foil-wrapped antiseptic pad from her toiletry case, unwraps it, and presses it against Chuck's cut.

"Thanks, babe—you're the best," he says, grimacing on account of the sting but appreciative of his wife's simple first aid.

He goes on in a lowered voice. "That maid, Rita—she went all non-linear there for a moment 'til you talked her down. But didn't you think there was something she really wanted to tell us?"

Sarah nods. "I did…but it was obvious she didn't trust us. Can't really blame her. I mean, if the roles were reversed"—she grins facetiously—"wouldn't _you _think _we_ were kind of shady? Just now getting out of bed…and leaving guns lying around the room?"

"Good point," replies Chuck. He turns and peers into the bedroom again. The bed is already made, the room is tidied up, and Rita is gone.

* * *

**That evening, on the narrow streets in and around the Santa Fé Plaza**

_(Music: "Romance Anonimo," by Ruben Romero)_

Enchanted by the City Different and thrilled to be out together, Chuck and Sarah wander among the pueblo-style buildings, and the throng of tourists and locals, as afternoon becomes evening. They're attired stylishly and a touch warmly, prepared for the evening chill at 7000 feet in elevation: Sarah in a navy-blue dress and red-brown knit wrap, and Chuck in a greyish-blue dinner jacket. They eagerly explore art galleries, bookstores, clothiers, and gourmet shops. They pause outside bars to listen momentarily to whatever band or singer is performing within, but their desire to see what's around the next corner keeps them from going inside any of them.

Beneath the block-long viga-roofed portal in front of the 400-year-old adobe Palace of the Governors, on the north side of the Plaza, Sarah and Chuck check out the fine jewelry and artwork for sale by local Native American artisans, alluringly arrayed on dozens of colorful rugs spread out on the sidewalk along the Palace wall. One magnificent pair of Zuñi deep-blue turquoise and silver earrings proves irresistible to Sarah once she has spotted them. She picks them up and holds them closer to the overhead lighting, admiring their color and detail, as the elderly Zuñi artist seated on the sidewalk looks up and on, approvingly.

"They're a good match for your eyes," says the wrinkled, grandmotherly woman, and Sarah beams. She holds one up to her earlobe, as if trying it on.

"Those are really beautiful," murmurs Chuck. "You like 'em?"

"I do, very much. But—" Before Sarah can finish her sentence, Chuck has his wallet out and is already paying the Native artisan for the earrings.

Sarah's eyes widen. "Oh Chuck—you're so sweet—but I wasn't trying to…"

"I know, but I haven't gotten you an anniversary present yet—"

"Oh, yes you have," Sarah counters, looking deeply into Chuck's face. "Love, care, and patience—all I've needed and more. Ever since the beach."

"Let's not forget frequent danger to life and limb!" says Chuck with a wink. "But this gift….I mean, babe…it's not like I'm buying you a villa on the French Riviera or anything." He makes a playful face at Sarah. "Now maybe if we ever get our Volkoff funds restored…."

"Never mind that!" Sarah insists. "These earrings are exquisite—and unique—_and_ you're giving them to me on our first wedding anniversary. So I'll always treasure them for those very reasons. Thank you, my love."

She removes the simple white-gold studs she'd been wearing in her ears, puts on the new turquoise-and-silver earrings, and sighs happily. Then she embraces and kisses Chuck, as the elderly Zuñi artisan claps her hands once and laughs loudly.

Continuing east along congested Palace Avenue, walking in the general direction of the warmly lit twin towers of the Saint Francis Cathedral, the Bartowskis happen upon an outdoor café set in a leafy garden between two buildings.

"_Mmmmm,"_ says Chuck, sniffing savory aromas wafting from the kitchen. "I'm suddenly reminded of the fact that we left the hotel to go have dinner."

"Well this place looks good to me," Sarah observes. "Nice and cozy. Shall we?" She takes his arm and he leads her into the restaurant.

Picking up on Chuck and Sarah's display of affection and sensing that it's an important evening, the hostess brings them to a candlelit table beneath a canopy of grapevines, alongside a bubbling fountain. Chuck holds Sarah's seat out for her, and after he sits down, she reaches out to clasp both of his hands across the small table.

"I like this," she tells him, flashing one of her megawatt smiles.

"Me too. Let's hope the food's as fine as the setting," he says, as their server brings them menus and pours them glasses of ice water. Just as they begin to read the menus, the iPhone in Chuck's pocket buzzes with an incoming call.

He groans. "I don't think I should answer this."

"That sounds like it's the secure line," replies Sarah.

"Yeah, it is. Which means it's probably Morgan…and he knows he's not supposed to call unless it's something really big…or really _bad…."_

"I think you should answer it."

Chuck sighs and takes the call. "Hel_-lo,_ and this had better—"

_("Good evening, Charles.")_

The voice is deep, measured, and cool. Chuck recognizes it instantly.

"_Roan?_ Roan Montgomery?"

Sarah sits up, open-mouthed, in surprise.

_("Indeed. And if I'm not mistaken, you and your lovely Sarah must just be sitting down to enjoy dinner. Is that correct?")_

"How do you _know_ that? How did you _find_ us?"

_("You do understand the CIA hasn't completely fallen to pieces since you left, Charles? Good. And besides, you two are leaving quite a bit in your wake—we see you've already assisted in a DEA sting, thwarted a convenience-store robbery…oh yes, and rescued an elderly motorist and his dog from a rollover accident on—")_

"Hey…what can we say, Roan? Old habits! But why are you calling us now?"

_("Isn't it obvious?"_ the veteran spy retorts. _"To wish you both a happy anniversary, of course…and on Diane's behalf as well as mine. After all, the two of us had the pleasure of attending your wedding ceremony a year ago today.")_

"Huh? I don't remember you two being there!"

_("Incognito, Charles, incognito! You know the General prefers to stay out of the public eye.")_

"_They were at our wedding?"_ Sarah whispers, and Chuck nods incredulously.

_("Now, Charles," _Roan continues_. "I don't plan to take much more of your evening than I already have. I only want you to know that you and Sarah are very, very special. To me, to Diane, to many of your former associates—")_

"That's nice of you to say, Roan…I…we…" Chuck stammers.

_("—because love—honest-to-God love—is so rarely seen in our profession. When it does happen, in spite of all that's aligned against it, it should be toasted. My fond regards to Sarah. Chao, Charles.") _

"Roan—wait—you—" But the call has already ended.

Chuckling quietly and shaking his head in mirth, Chuck looks to Sarah. She's pointing at something directly behind him. Chuck turns around and sees their server arriving, with a tray bearing a chilled bottle of Duval Leroy champagne, two flutes…and two deep red-orange roses with their long stems crossed.

"Mister and Mizz Carmichael?" the server inquires.

"Yes—but we didn't order that," Sarah quickly replies.

"No ma'am. It was sent by an anonymous well-wisher."

"Not quite anonymous," says Chuck with a laugh. "That sly old fox."

"Y'know, I actually do remember that he once had to coach you on how to kiss me," Sarah teases.

"That's not exactly how _I _remember it," answers Chuck, pretending to frown.

The server pops the cork and pours the shimmering champagne for Sarah and Chuck. They lean across the table toward each other, kiss, and clink their glasses.

"To a lifetime of shared adventure," Sarah toasts.

"Works for me," says Chuck.

* * *

**After dinner**

Contented and cuddlesome, they meander arm-in-arm past Saint Francis Cathedral on their way back toward the Plaza.

"So did you enjoy that?" Chuck asks.

"Ohmigod yes!" gushes Sarah fervently. "I've never had chile rellenos _that_ good—and the sopapillas…so light and fluffy. I won't forget that restaurant any time soon."

"Me neither. Do you want to stop somewhere for an after-dinner drink?"

"No—I'm good, thanks, sweetie. A few sips of that fine champagne were enough."

Chuck affectionately shoulder-bumps her. "You're not afraid of losing control, are you, babe?"

"I'm planning on it, actually," Sarah replies, pulling herself closer against his side. "So you'd better take me back to our room."

Chuck and Sarah laugh together and quicken their pace—but a block farther along, they have to slow down again, as they encounter a cluster of about a dozen people obstructing the sidewalk and staring dumbly into a narrow alley alongside the La Fonda Hotel. They wedge their way through the silent and stock-still crowd to see what's got their attention.

Six feet into the gloomy alley lies the prone form of a young woman, sprawled on her back with her head turned sideways. Her eyes are closed and a small pool of blood has collected directly beneath the base of her skull. Her leather handbag, and its contents, lie thrown about on the ground alongside her.

"She's dead," a man in the crowd says. "I already called 911."

"Are you certain of that?" Sarah asks him, as she slips through the cluster of bystanders, squats down next to the victim, and feels for a neck pulse. Chuck joins her. She looks up at him and shakes her head. Hesitantly, Chuck steps closer to the body. He crouches down next to his wife and leans close to speak softly in her ear.

"A mugging gone bad?" He gestures toward the woman's scattered belongings.

"I think it was _supposed_ to look like that," Sarah responds, in the same subdued tone, "but just look at the wound—"

Chuck shudders and says, "I'm fine with your observations, thanks."

"—Well anyway, she was stabbed in the back of the head and_ then_ bashed with a blunt object. Cut right through her brain stem. Instant oblivion. Very precise…very professional hit."

"Oh my gosh," says Chuck. "But why here, of all places?"

Then, more apprehensively, he adds, "…I guess I might be able to find out."

Sarah nods and takes hold of his arm, as he steels himself to look into the murdered woman's face—and _flashes: field agent's badge—Department of Energy personnel file—engineering degree—radiation hazard symbol… _

"Her name's Mandy Benoit," he says after the Intersect flash ends. "She's—she _was—_a field agent for the National Nuclear Security Administration."

"Nuclear counter-terrorism," Sarah notes. "This is starting to get scary."

A police siren comes into earshot from several blocks away. Chuck scans the alley from one end to the other.

"Shouldn't she have had backup?" he asks.

"Who might be dead too—somewhere nearby," Sarah points out. "We can't help her now—and this isn't our mission, sweetie. We've gotta go."

They get to their feet and continue along the alley, moving away from the body of the NNSA agent and the crowd of onlookers, who continue to gawk without saying anything. Chuck and Sarah walk calmly but swiftly around to the back of the La Fonda Hotel and gain entry through a service door, just a few seconds before the first police officers arrive at the murder scene.

In the elevator, alone with Chuck at last, Sarah rests her head against his chest and sighs deeply as he holds her.

"You okay, babe?" he asks her.

She looks up at him with a pensive smile. "Yeah. Just sad and a little frustrated."

"Think I know what you mean. Stuff like this _used to be_ our mission. Hard to just walk on by, isn't it?"

"Mm-hmm."

When they reach their floor, they hold hands and move in silence along the carpeted hallway toward their luxury suite on the far side of the building. They turn a corner and nearly collide with a heavyset, bearded man headed in the opposite direction.

"Pardon us," Chuck says, as he and Sarah deftly swerve out of the man's path without breaking stride or letting go of each other's hand.

"Sorry," the hefty man mutters as they pass—and then he pauses in the hallway. In a gravelly voice, he asks:

"Say—have you folks seen any of the housekeeping staff around?"

"No, sorry," replies Chuck. "We just got off the elevator."

The man shrugs. "I'm just trying to find some extra towels. Thanks anyway."

He disappears around the corner, and Sarah and Chuck continue on to their door.

"_That_ was kind of weird," Chuck remarks as he takes the room key in hand.

"I thought so too," says Sarah. "He could've just called down to the front desk."

The Bartowskis enter the suite and lock the door behind them. Sarah slips off her knit wrap and bends down to remove her pumps, then carries all of these toward the bedroom. His dinner jacket draped over his arm, Chuck follows.

"So…how's your mood, baby?" he asks her.

Sarah looks wistful. "To be honest? Kind of dampened by the events of the last few minutes…"

"Yeah. Mine too."

"But I could still use a good long cuddle with you," Sarah adds. "Maybe watch a movie?" She heads for the bathroom. "Hmm…don't recall leaving the light on in here," she muses as she opens the door….

Across the suite, sitting on the bed and in the process of taking off his shoes, Chuck hears his wife cry, _"What the HELL?"_ He runs into the bathroom after her as quickly as he can with one shoe off and one still on.

There, sitting on the closed lid of the toilet, still in her uniform—terrified and trembling worse than ever—is the maid, Rita.

"What are you _doing_ here?" Sarah demands.

"I'm sorry…I'm so sorry ma'am…sir…I'm in trouble an' I don't know w-what to do…I mean, y-you said you were in law enforcement, so I thought you could help me—"

"Help you with what?"

The young maid swallows hard, and points to the bathroom window. "A lady was murdered right out there next to the hotel," she says. "Did you see it?"

"Yes, but—"

Rita lowers her voice until it's almost inaudible:

"That was a government agent coming here to talk to _me."_

"Huh?" Chuck's jaw drops almost to his breastbone.

"What did she want with you?" asks Sarah.

Rita shudders, and her story floods out. "It's not m-me…it's my boyfriend Donny—he's into something really bad. Him and these shady friends he took up with. Ever since Donny got fired from the Lab two months ago, he's been all—"

"The Lab?" Chuck interrupts. "Do you mean _Los Alamos?"_

"Yeah, yeah, Los Alamos…it's just up the hill half an hour's drive from here. Plenty of folks that work up there live in Santa Fé."

"What did Donny do at Los Alamos?" asks Sarah.

"He was a machinist, ma'am. A _good_ machinist. He used to work on all the robotic arms, the glove boxes, and so on. But then a few months ago, he started getting weird…talking about revolution and holy war and stuff…going out at night to meet creepy people…"

Rita looks plaintively at Sarah and Chuck. "I think he got exposed to something bad up there, something that messed up his mind. I begged and begged Donny to get help but he _just…wouldn't...listen!_ So then I went and asked his supervisor to help him. But instead, they just revoked his clearance and fired him on the spot!"

"So the NNSA was investigating him and they contacted you?" Chuck asks her.

"That's right."

"Did your boyfriend know you were meeting with an agent?"

The young maid shrugs. "I dunno. I didn't say anything to him 'cept I was gonna be a little late from work tonight. He picks me up out front every night when my shift ends." Her eyes go wide. "You don't—you don't think Donny might'a had something to do with the murder, do you?"

Sarah parries Rita's question with another question: "Is he out there now?"

"Uh-huh. Parked right in front. He drives a big black Dodge Ram 2500."

"Stay in here," Sarah instructs her.

"Don't move," adds Chuck.

He and Sarah leave Rita on the john and head across the bedroom out to the balcony, as if to take in the view of the Plaza before them.

"Didn't want to tell her someone was already in the hotel looking for her," Chuck says.

"I know," concurs Sarah, as the two of them subtly look down from the balcony.

Four stories directly below them on San Francisco Street, a black Dodge Ram 2500 pickup truck idles at the curb near the side entrance to the hotel, barely fifty feet from where four Santa Fé city police cars cluster with lights flashing. A police officer is in the process of closing off the alley with yellow tape. A sizable group of onlookers now stands just outside the taped-off area.

An elbow—probably Donny's—rests casually in the open window of the driver's-side door of the pickup, and a shadow reveals another person in the back seat of the cab.

"Pretty chill—just sitting there, so close to the crime scene," Chuck observes.

In the bed of the truck sits an oversized auto mechanic's toolbox, held down with steel cables. As Chuck lets his eyes wander over the box, he _flashes_ once more! Sarah notices, and waits for her husband's eyes and face to relax before questioning him.

"What'd you see?"

"That toolbox, babe. It's not really a toolbox at all—it's a state-of-the-art stealth containment vessel for highly radioactive materials. New enough that the plans haven't shown up yet on any known terrorist websites…and I'd bet most law-enforcement agencies aren't even aware of it."

"Something like that could be used to transport plutonium," Sarah says ominously, as Chuck nods in agreement. "And a big chunk of the nation's plutonium supply is stored at—"

"_Los Alamos,"_ they say in unison—before rushing back to the bathroom.

"Okay…we believe you," Chuck tells Rita. "And we can help you."

The young woman smiles gratefully at them, through her tears.

"But be aware—this situation's very, _very_ dangerous," Sarah continues. "That NNSA agent wasn't killed by some half-baked at-large jihadist group. Somebody had to know her exact schedule and moves. And that'd suggest this is an inside job—somebody in the Lab with NNSA connections is plotting to steal plutonium."

"We don't know but they might just be using your boyfriend," Chuck warns. "At some point, his life could be in as much danger as yours is now, Rita."

"So to be sure, we've got to extract you _both_ from this—not just take _him_ down. There'll be some risk involved in that. Do you understand?"

Unexpectedly calm, Rita nods, and asks them, "What is it you want me to do?"

* * *

**Twenty minutes later, directly outside the La Fonda, on San Francisco Street**

Rita bursts out of the side door to the hotel, panting hard, her purse swinging in a wide arc from one shoulder. She runs up to the black pickup truck still idling at the curb, and knocks on the passenger-side window. At the wheel, Donny—a fit, thirty-something man in a Metallica t-shirt—frowns at her, and takes his time lowering the window.

"Since when'd it take you so long to get off work?" he grumbles at Rita. "Let's go!"

She puts her hands on her hips and fires back, "Since when'd _you_ stop being a gentleman?" Then she takes a half-step back from the door, waiting for Donny to come around and open it for her.

He hesitates, but a man in the back seat tells him, "Go ahead," in a gravelly voice.

As the muscled machinist gets out of the truck and walks around the front end to Rita's side, Sarah watches him from just inside the hotel entrance. Donny opens the passenger-side door, but Rita still won't get in.

"Who's that?" she asks, gesturing at the man in the back seat: heavyset, bearded...the same person whom Chuck and Sarah encountered in the hotel hallway.

"Just a friend," replies Donny. "Droppin' him off on our way home."

"Good evening," the man says to Rita. She doesn't reply, instead keeping a wary eye on him as she climbs into the cab.

Donny gets back behind the wheel. He reaches for the shifter, then swears softly when someone pulls up directly alongside his truck in a low-slung sports car, and stops there to eyeball the police activity just in front of them.

Rita points to the same scene. "D'you see what's goin' on there?"

"'Course, baby, I ain't blind," Donny replies, sounding very nervous. "What's up?"

"I heard it was a murder. Pretty gruesome."

"Whoa. Really?" Donny looks to his left again. The sports car is still sitting right there, blocking him from being able to pull out into the street. For the first time, he notices that the car is a vintage blue Corvette—and in spite of his irritation, he's impressed enough to give it a longer look. The driver—Chuck—waves up at him. Donny signals him to move out of the way, but Chuck just waves again, more enthusiastically than before.

"_Ja, ja?"_ he calls out. _"You like zis car, eh? Do you?"_

"Crrripes," Donny mutters. "Tourists."

"A murder," Rita says again—then takes a deep breath, steadies herself, and continues, "It was a government secret agent got killed, I'm told. But you knew that already—right baby?"

The big gravel-voiced man sitting behind her chuckles.

"_Damn!"_ Donny yells, and pounds the steering wheel. "Damn, damn, damn, girl!"

"Told ya," says the other man. "There's your snitch, Donny."

"I've heard enough," says Rita. "I'm _so_ disappointed in you, baby. I'm outta here." She reaches for the door handle, but the gravel-voiced man grabs her shoulder and roughly pins her back against the passenger seat. She freezes at the touch of cold, sharp steel on the back of her neck.

"You move, or try to scream," the man threatens, "and you're dead before you can finish making the sound."

Rita gulps and holds _very, very_ still.

"Let's roll, Donny. I really don't like us sitting here so close to the police."

"No—please," begs Donny in anguish. "You said she didn't have to get hurt! You _promised_ me, man! You can't do this!"

"She's a _freakin' snitch!"_ thunders the gravel-voiced man. "A spy! Listen, son—I just had to eliminate two NNSA operatives—and now you want to leave _this_ loose end hanging? No way! And why the hell aren't we moving?"

"Can't," says Donny, now sounding almost hopeful as he explains, "Some geek in a Vette's got us hemmed in."

"Well just give 'im the horn—"

The gravel-voiced man abruptly stops barking when he feels the muzzle of a pistol—extended smartly through Rita's open window and shoved against his right temple.

"I can pull this trigger _a lot _faster than you can push that knife," Sarah announces. "So _drop it, _towel boy! Right now!"

The killer ponders his options for a second or two—then lets the knife fall to the floor. Sarah takes a step back while keeping dead aim on him, and opens the passenger door for Rita.

"C'mon out now, girl…and good work!"

Rita clambers out of the truck and opens her purse in front of Sarah, who reaches in and takes out her iPhone—which had been recording the entire conversation inside the truck.

Meanwhile, Chuck appears at Donny's window and points his own weapon at the thoroughly confused and frightened young machinist.

"Don't shoot me, bro!" Donny pleads, holding up his hands.

"He's holding a lousy _tranq pistol_ on you…idiot!" grouses the gravel-voiced man.

Rita starts running down the sidewalk toward the police at the crime scene, shouting to attract their attention.

* * *

**A little while later**

The Santa Fé police captain shrugs his shoulders and smiles earnestly at Chuck and Sarah, who stand on the sidewalk close together, watching as Donny and the gravel-voiced man, hands zip-tied behind their backs, are taken away in a cruiser.

"Don't know who you two really are," the captain says to them, "but the FBI called, and said we should just thank you and send you on your way."

"What about _her?"_ asks Sarah—nodding toward Rita, who stands glumly alongside a policewoman a few steps away. "Poor thing's life just got turned upside-down. And until the rest of the plutonium ring is captured, she'll have to stay under protective custody. Who's going to see to that?"

"We'll call the U. S. Marshals," the captain offers.

"No. We…will take care of Rita," interjects a very dignified-looking, older Native American man, in a suit with a silver inlay bola tie and grey felt broad-brimmed hat, who has just quietly joined them without drawing their notice. As soon as Rita spots this man, she leaps to embrace him.

"_Uncle!"_ she cries happily. "You're here! You came! Ohh—thank you, Uncle!"

The man hugs her lovingly, then gently ushers her to one side so that he can shake hands with Chuck and Sarah.

"My name is Galisteo Popé," he tells them. "I am the Governor of Katuwe Pueblo. Our homelands are located in the Jémez foothills a little ways south and west of here. As you can see, Rita is my niece. I will take her home. Her people will protect her."

"Uncle," says Rita, "If not for Chuck and Sarah, I might be dead now."

"Your niece was very brave and heroic," Sarah asserts.

Popé looks even more intently at the Bartowskis, and says, "Thank you. You have my deepest gratitude, and that of all of her relatives. Call on us if we can ever return the favor. You both will be warmly welcomed in our community at any time."

"We truly appreciate that, sir," Chuck replies.

"We're happy that we could be of some help," adds Sarah.

Moments later, after Rita and her uncle have departed, and the Santa Fé police have resumed processing the two crime scenes, Chuck looks questioningly at his wife.

"So…should we go back to our room now, babe?"

Sarah's eyes twinkle at him. "Later. But since you've already got the car out of the garage, you can take me for a drive first. Let's go find a nice scenic overlook and put one last exclamation point on our first anniversary."

She steps over to the passenger side of the Corvette and waits for Chuck to open the door for her. Then they glide away: across the ancient, storied city; up into the adjoining mountains; out into the romantic New Mexico night.

_(Music: "Glossed," by the Smith Westerns)_


	5. Chapter 4

**CHUCK VERSUS ROUTE 66—PART ONE (Chuck 6-05)**

Concluding the fifth episode of an imaginary sixth season of _Chuck_.

**Disclaimer:** I'll always be a _Chuck_ fan, and hope to be a _Chuck_ fanfic writer for a while longer (these "episodes" do take some time to write!), but I do not own an iota of _Chuck _itself.

* * *

**CHAPTER 4**

**Wednesday night PDT, Federal Central Detention Facility, downtown Los Angeles**

A marshal leads Casey—wearing a blue-grey prison outfit; held in custody all day—from a holding cell to a spartan but brightly lit interrogation room, which has mirrored one-way glass along one entire wall and contains only a bare metal table and two hard-backed chairs. Without speaking, the marshal points to the chair on the side of the table opposite the glass. Casey grunts and takes a seat.

The marshal leaves the room, and a few seconds later, FBI Agent Mazowiecki comes in, wearing his usual generously-cut business suit, and carrying Casey's Volkoff EMP generator: now sealed in a plastic bag with an evidence tag. Mazowiecki takes the chair across the table from Casey and sets the EMP device down.

"Food been all right, Colonel?" he asks.

"I'll be sure to like this place on Urbanspoon soon's I get the chance."

Mazowiecki chuckles and gestures toward the EMP device. "We checked it out. Confirmed it was never fired, just like you said."

"Don't recall I said anything one way or the other," Casey counters.

"Well—anyway—you're off the hook for knocking SNN off the air."

"_That's_ sure a load off my mind."

"And by the way, 'case you're interested, their facility's still pretty much fried. Last I heard, they were broadcasting out of some dinky training studio in a community college over in Sylmar."

Mazowiecki smiles wider, amused by the network's misfortune.

"So who did it?" asks Casey. "You don't know…do you?"

The FBI agent shrugs. "I've got some ideas. For one, I think that whoever deployed that EMP did it 'cause _you_ were there…and a bit too close for their comfort."

He clasps his hands together with a sharp slap, leans toward Casey, and continues:

"Which gets me wondering whether _you_ might have an idea of who did this, Colonel."

Casey emits a sarcastic grunt. "Sorry."

"Still…I'd bet that after I turn you loose, first thing you'll do is go after them."

Casey's eyebrows lift. "So you're releasing me?"

"Well, there's no longer any reason to detain you. Nothing we can charge you with, except maybe impersonating a janitor."

"Guess it's lucky for me that isn't a Federal offense."

Casey starts to rise—but Mazowiecki holds up his hand to stop him.

"Just a minute, Colonel. First I'd like to know if you're interested in a trade. For mutual benefit."

"Trade what for what?"

"I'll tell you everything I know about the 403-g order on the Bartowskis. I suspect you'll find the intel useful—because you know and I know that a pulse weapon that big and sophisticated was probably deployed by _our_ side. That and a 403-g suggests your spy friends have one helluva guardian angel. I'd be kind of worried about what that angel's gonna want in return."

"Why would _you_ care, Mazowiecki?"

"I care because I don't like where all this is leading. A major high-tech tactical weapon fired on an urban civilian target, for godsakes?"

"How long did you say you've been in this business?" retorts Casey.

"Whatever. Anyway, we also got a report of some mysterious drone strike right near where the Bartowskis were traveling in Arizona. Supposedly went off course from a gunnery range in Nevada. Eighty-nine miles off course—yeah right."

"You're the FBI. So investigate."

"Love to. But my explicit orders are to enforce the 403-g directive, not to challenge it. You, Colonel, on the other hand…you've got a bit more…flexibility."

Casey ponders Mazowiecki's words for a moment.

"So what do you want in exchange for the intel?"

"Keep me in the loop. That includes a copy of all the data and audio recordings you took from Christine Crocker-Reynolds before the hammer came down."

Casey feigns a mystified look, but the FBI agent isn't misled.

"I didn't put any of that in my report—but I know you've got it, sir. We found the remnants of your surveillance devices in two offices on the thirty-sixth floor. Barbecued by the EMP—but still identifiable."

"Sounds like you're giving me a second chance to incriminate myself," Casey replies with a hollow laugh.

Mazowiecki shakes his head. "No. I'm not after you, Colonel. And even though I've gotta wonder exactly what your civilian spy friends are _doing_ that would rate 403-g immunity, I'm not the one they need to worry about."

Unconvinced, Casey asks, "And I can trust that you mean all that, because….?"

Mazowiecki says nothing, but slowly rises from his chair, slips off his jacket, and rolls up the right sleeve of his shirt—revealing a finely detailed tattoo of the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor logo of the U. S. Marine Corps.

"Chief Warrant Officer-4, First Recon Battalion."

"_Semper Fi,"_ murmurs Casey with immediate respect. Mazowiecki holds out his hand, and Casey shakes it vigorously.

"I'll have to make a phone call," Casey says. "I need a ride back to C. I. to get the data for you."

"You're already set. Your daughter and her boyfriend Grimes have been waiting right down the hall for hours. And your lawyer's been by at least three times since we picked you up."

Casey grunts approvingly. "Hope one of 'em thought to bring me some clothes. What about Chuck and Sarah Bartowski?"

"No sign of 'em."

"Good. Would've hated to interrupt their vacation."

* * *

**Early Thursday morning CDT, at a plain but tidy motel in Amarillo, Texas **

Daylight is still sparse, and the sky is overcast and steely-grey, as Sarah and Chuck pack up and prepare to get back on the road. Chuck steps out of their first-floor room with their suitcase in hand, and scans the surroundings mostly out of sheer force of habit. He puts the suitcase in the trunk of the blue Corvette as Sarah emerges from the motel, heavy-eyed and yawning, with the smaller armored case bearing the five Keys.

Once that case is also secured, Chuck walks around to the front of the car, and Sarah follows. He gently lays his iPad on the hood and pulls up a satellite map of their route for the day. Sarah leans against his back and peers over his shoulder at the screen.

"Should be able to make real mileage today, baby," he tells her. "There's nothing but prairie ahead of us now."

Sarah lifts her head, sniffs the air, and scrunches her nose. "And livestock."

"Yeah…we'll probably want the top up. Let's check the weather forecast." Chuck taps a box on the iPad screen to superimpose a weather map over the satellite image, revealing a pattern of cloud masses and blinking yellow polygons scattered over the landscape they're about to cross.

He points to the screen. "Uh-oh, look at this. Most of Oklahoma and southwest Missouri under a severe thunderstorm watch this afternoon. Right in our path."

"Hmm," says Sarah. "Yet another good reason to put the top up. And I guess now we'll see how the Vette handles on wet roads."

"Gotta love my 'glass-is-half-full' girl." Chuck turns his head to capture her gaze. "Or we could just stay here another day. Just sayin'."

Sarah gives him a skeptical look.

"Do _you_ really want to stay here?"

"No," admits Chuck. "We've had a wonderful couple of days, but I'm starting to feel a little anxious about getting our package to Ellie."

"Me too."

"And…just think of little Clara in Chicago, eagerly waiting for her favorite uncle and auntie to show up."

Sarah nods in agreement. "We'll keep an eye out. We'll be fine, sweetheart."

Chuck feels a slight, almost subliminal, shudder—very brief, and quickly forgotten as Sarah kisses him, and they both jump into the Corvette.

* * *

**At the same time, in an all-night Starbucks in West Los Angeles **

It's still well before dawn back on the West Coast, but the coffee shop is already bustling. Agent Mazowiecki has to wait a few minutes to get the table he wants, with just two seats and in the farthest corner of the shop. He sits there sipping his piping-hot venti dark roast and waits for Casey, who is still in the line at the cashier.

When Casey appears, he puts a small paper sack down in front of the FBI agent.

"Blueberry danish," he says. "And a micro hard drive."

Mazowiecki asks, "Everything from SNN's on there?"

"Everything except for that video of my daughter," Casey admits, and shrugs his shoulders. "Just being the protective dad."

"I understand. It'll do. Please have a seat, Colonel Casey."

As Casey sits down, Mazowiecki looks around the room until he is satisfied that nobody is paying them any attention. In a low voice, he resumes talking.

"Now be assured, Colonel, that I love my country and the Bureau. I only want to do the right thing here. But…well, how much do _you_ know about a 403-g order like the one out on the Bartowskis?"

"Not a lot. Just that it's very high level, involves the FBI somehow—and that I've never been affected by one. Until now."

"Yeah. I know you're an experienced international operative, sir…but a 403-g is a purely domestic directive and it's _very_ rarely issued. This is the first time I've had to deal with one myself. Under a 403-g, any civilian can be authorized to conduct clandestine activities on U.S. soil with the same immunity and means as any sworn Federal agent. Any civilian can be so designated, no questions asked—"

"Chuck and Sarah aren't typical civilians!" Casey snaps back. "They were pros for years—and damn good ones."

"I understand that, sir…I've dealt with 'em. And I already know that as their ex-partner, you'd vouch for 'em right up to the gates of hell itself."

Casey nods, and Mazowiecki pauses to sip his coffee.

"Problem is," the FBI agent continues, "what if they're actually only pawns in a much bigger game than the cybersecurity biz? I mean—don't you think all this collateral action with drones and tactical EMP has the hallmarks of something darker?"

"Maybe…"

"Colonel, are you aware there's only one entity that can even authorize a 403-g? And that's the FISA Court. You familiar with it?"

"Hunh," grunts Casey in surprise. "Yeah. FISA. That'd be the Foreign Intelligence Surveillance Act Court. In Washington. The one that oversees domestic spy ops."

"Exactly. The court that nobody outside of our business even knows about."

"And hopefully stays that way," Casey says fervently. "All right then, Mazowiecki. Tell me this. If the FISA approves the 403-g, who brings them the request for the order in the first place?"

The FBI agent takes a particularly big and dramatic draught of his steaming coffee before responding.

"Now you're punching way above _my_ weight class, sir."

"So I have to work for that intel," observes Casey with a trace of a smile.

"And good luck," adds Mazowiecki.

* * *

**Midday Thursday CDT, just east of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma**

It's warm but raining hard. The top is up on the blue Corvette. Traffic on the Interstate is heavy and slow. Chuck exits the highway and points the car toward a roadside drive-thru _Subway®_ sandwich shop. Sarah has Chuck's iPad on her lap, and she's studying the latest weather-radar image of the region.

"Not so great ahead of us," she informs her husband, "but right now, it looks even worse behind us—back in Texas."

Chuck glances over at the screen and opines, "It's just as well we went on, then."

The Corvette enters the drive-thru lane. At the microphone, Chuck has to lean far out and shout his order for a couple of footlongs and sodas over the whistle of a persistent south wind. As the car continues on to the pick-up window, a strong gust swoops in from behind and funnels through the lane, momentarily shaking the Corvette like a toy.

"Then again, maybe it wasn't," Chuck adds.

A smiling young woman in a striped _Subway®_ apron waits for the wind to lessen before taking payment from Chuck and handing the sandwiches and drinks out to him.

"There's plenty of weather to go around today," says Sarah, as she uses one of her knives to methodically cut Chuck's footlong into more manageable pieces he can eat while driving. "So let's just keep moving unless and until things really get bad."

"Sounds like a plan, babe."

Chuck and Sarah return to the busy Interstate and continue driving east through steady rain and wind. Occasional flashes of lightning high in the solid grey cloud pack, conjoined with faintly grumbling thunder, accompany them on their way.

* * *

**Early Thursday evening EDT, in downtown Washington, D.C. **

Casey takes the Metrorail from Washington Reagan National Airport to the Federal Triangle station in the downtown area across the Potomac River. Anonymous amidst the rush-hour crowds, he rides the escalator up from the underground platform into the cavernous Old Post Office Pavilion on Pennsylvania Avenue between the White House and the Capitol. The urban mall is teeming and lively, as government employees headed from work to the bars and restaurants mix with tourists wandering in and out of the boutique shops.

Casey locates his objective: a tavern done up to resemble an 18th-Century Virginia public house, with a faux-stone front wall and ornate ironwork.

_(Music: "Your Secret's Safe With Me," by Walking Papers)_

Inside, blaring indie rock and servers dressed in outfits that look more piratical than Revolutionary send a seriously mixed message about the place. Casey scans the crowded establishment, and almost immediately spots his mark as she rises from her high-backed seat at a table near the back to wave at him: elegant, trim, and about a head taller than everyone else in her vicinity: NSA Special Agent Tameka Cliff.

Casey crosses the room to join her. Directly above his path, fixed and well camouflaged on one of the false wooden beams in the ceiling, is a moth-like Noctuidor nano-drone.

* * *

_A raven-haired woman watches Casey on a monitor screen—one of several set in the windowless room in which she sits, each of them displaying a different image. One of the other screens displays a real-time satellite weather map of the entire state of Oklahoma—across which large, pastel-colored, spiraling blobs that signify dangerous storm cells are migrating from southwest to northeast._

"_All right, Colonel Casey," the woman murmurs to herself. "You definitely have my attention now_…no?_ The question that remains is: what do I do with you?"_

_She ponders this for a few seconds. Then she picks up a phone._

* * *

Casey and Tameka exchange quick kisses on the cheek before he sits down at the table facing her. She already has a half-empty glass of white wine in front of her. Casey chuckles when he catches sight of her ever-present hard hat and clipboard, on the seat alongside her.

"Thanks for meeting me, Tammy," he begins. "I know this isn't your kind of place."

"It's okay, baby. A surprise but it's nice to see you again. Though I have no idea what prompted it."

The attractive NSA agent cocks her head playfully and waits for Casey to explain.

"I happened to be in D.C. on business. And I was thinking—we never got a chance to catch up when we met in Burbank, so why not—"

A server shyly interrupts them to take his order. Casey asks for scotch on the rocks, another wine for Tameka, and a basket of barbecued rib tips.

"Gettin' on dinner time. Thought you might be a little hungry," he says to Tameka, who smiles at him.

"And…you remembered how much we _both_ like rib tips…didn't you, John?"

"Maybe I did," he replies with a wink.

They make small talk until the server returns with the drinks and a paper-lined wicker basket full of piping-hot rib tips, doused in a thick red-brown sauce. She sets the items on the table, along with a stack of napkins and a small handful of individually packaged moist towelettes: indispensable for the orderly consumption of such a messy treat.

Finally, she leaves them the check. "I can keep this tab open for you if you'd like."

"Thanks," Casey says, without looking up.

The pile of towelette packets is closest to him. He slides two packets over to Tameka's side of the table. The NSA agent—more of a logistics expert than a spy—fails to notice that the packets in front of her have no markings on them.

Tameka and Casey clink their glasses and imbibe. He offers her the basket of rib tips. She takes one and bites into it, leaving a big, bold stroke of sauce across her chin. She rolls her eyes and looks abashed.

"Oops. Kinda hard to look dignified when you're eating these," she says. "Lucky we're already friends."

"No worries," Casey assures her. He looks into the basket—as if about to take one of the rib tips himself—but pauses to watch as Tameka picks up one of the towelette packets he gave her, and tears it open.

"I know I should wait until I'm done, but I see we have plenty of these to spare."

She wipes her chin and her fingers with the moist pad…then frowns and brings it to her nose for a sniff.

"Smells a little strange—" Tameka realizes…and suddenly, she shivers and slumps back into her upholstered chair, as her eyes lose focus.

"John," she mumbles shakily, "please tell me you didn't just slip me a roofie…."

"It's called MSCD. Truth drug. It'll only last a few minutes."

Casey uses his napkin to pluck the drugged towelette from Tameka's fingers, reclaims the unopened packet, and stuffs both of them in his pocket.

"Damn you, John."

"Wish I didn't have to do this," he says quietly. "And I'd feel _real_ bad about ruining our friendship—except that you aren't going to remember any of this."

Tameka frowns…and then laughs.

"You…big Marine…bastard. If you wanted…to get with me again…you didn't need to do this, baby. You know damn well I've still got a thing for you."

Casey shakes his head. "Too much water under that bridge, Tammy. I need something else. I need to know who ordered your team to reopen Castle for Carmichael Industries."

The NSA agent blinks and looks disappointed. "I never saw a name. My orders came through the secure intranet and I was on a plane to Burbank in less than an hour. Thanks to your friend Grimes there was an incident I had to clean up first."

Casey grunts knowingly. "Been there. Intranet, huh? Were the orders NSA internal?"

"No, from higher up. They came directly from the office of the Director of National Intelligence." She chuckles. "Still remember doing a double-take when I read _that." _

His entire body tenses. "DNI? Are you absolutely sure?"

"Hell yeah I'm absolutely sure. Didn't you say this stuff's a truth drug, baby?"

Casey scrutinizes Tameka carefully. Her eyes are focused more fixedly on him now, and her rate of breathing is increasing. "You're coming out of it already," he observes. "One strong lady…I remember that about you."

Now, Casey has to move fast. He uses one of the actual towelettes to wipe the rest of the sauce off Tameka's chin, as she giggles and tries weakly to push his hand away. Then, as she sits there—still dazed—he crumples up the napkins and towelettes and heaps them atop the basket of rib tips. He spots a nearby table from which the patrons have just departed and which hasn't been cleared off yet, and leaves the basket there, along with his own whiskey glass—after he's drained it.

Having left no physical traces of his brief presence where Tameka would notice them, Casey picks up the check and pays it on his way out of the tavern.

Back on the street, Casey can feel his pulse rate rise in alarm at Tameka's revelation about the DNI. He slips into the flow of pedestrians along Pennsylvania Avenue, scanning his surroundings for pursuers as he takes out his iPhone and makes a call to Chuck and Sarah on their secure line. To his chagrin, he gets only a robotic response:

_("We apologize…your call cannot be completed at this time owing to severe weather conditions. We apologize…your call cannot be completed at this time….")_

* * *

**At the same time, in northeastern Oklahoma**

Wind-driven rain and occasional episodes of marble-sized hail pepper the traffic crawling along the Interstate highway. The unbroken cloud cover and murky rain squalls deepen the late-afternoon gloom. Sarah has an almost desperate grip on the steering wheel as she struggles to keep the Corvette pointed steadily straight on the slick storm-drenched asphalt, boxed in by hulking grey semi-trucks that sway side-to-side with every new gust. Chuck taps in frustration on the iPad on his knee.

"The signal keeps dropping off," he complains. "Cell towers must be going out all over the place."

"We won't make St. Louis tonight," Sarah says in resignation. "And we're both so worn out from driving—maybe we ought to find some place closer to put in for the night."

"I like that idea. Next sizable town we get to. Let me see what I can find." Chuck opens a geographic search engine on his iPad, but almost immediately, the broadband signal is gone again.

"All right—I give up." He puts the iPad aside, leans back in his seat, and triggers an Intersect flash—and in less than a second, he has the names and locations of sixteen motels along their direct route, visualizing them as if a list was being projected on the windshield in front of him.

"We'll have some options in about twelve miles," he tells Sarah.

"Great. Even at this crawl it won't take us too long. I'd really like to get off the road as soon as we can."

"Same here, babe." Chuck puts a hand on her knee and squeezes it.

And a bit farther along, Sarah and Chuck appear to get a break. Nearly all of the heavy trucks, and many of the smaller vehicles, pull off into a roadside rest area and cluster closely near a low, sprawling concrete structure. Just like that, the road ahead of them is almost wide open.

"I think you and I can do better than camping out in a rest stop," Chuck suggests.

"Agreed," says Sarah, as she gives the Corvette some gas. But then, as the crowded rest area recedes from their view, something else occurs to her:

"Chuck…what if those drivers know something we don't?"

He swallows hard and looks to his iPad, but it's still offline—so he turns his attention to the car radio, which had been softly playing a satellite music channel, and scans through the local FM stations until:

"—_tornado warning has now been extended to include Mayes, Rogers, Craig, and Nowata Counties until seven p.m. this evening. Residents are directed to seek shelter immediately as a line of supercells crosses the region. At least one tornado has been reported in Cherokee County. _Do not _remain outside—seek shelter _now_…."_

"Make that the next town…of _any_ size," says Sarah with grim determination, pushing the Corvette on through the swirling downpour, as Chuck nods and looks up with mounting fear at the boiling skies.

But they don't even get that far. At the next exit, surrounded by nothing but wind-tortured cornfields, with no buildings anywhere in sight, the lanes are blocked by two drab-green transport trucks—in which National Guard troops sit expectantly—and an Oklahoma Highway Patrol cruiser with all of its red and blue lights strobing. Sarah expertly works the brakes and the steering, bringing the Corvette to a smooth stop as a state patrolman in a rain slicker steps up and leans into her window.

"_Ma'am,"_ the patrolman shouts over the keening wind, _"you can't go any farther! There's debris all over the highway just ahead! You two need to get to shelter, and fast—didn't you hear the bulletins?"_

"_Yes!"_ Sarah shouts back. _"But where do we go? We don't know this area!"_

The patrolman points down the exit ramp, toward a paved two-lane county road that extends into the distance between endless rows of crazily dancing cornstalks.

"_There's a town just over that rise, five miles away! The grade school there has a reinforced storm shelter! Hurry! Go!"_

"_Thank you!"_ Chuck shouts at the patrolman, as Sarah quickly pivots the Vette toward the exit ramp.

* * *

**Simultaneously, in Washington, D.C….**

_(Music continues: 'Your Secret's Safe With Me," by Walking Papers)_

Casey presses forward through the throngs strolling along Pennsylvania Avenue in the direction of the brightly lit U.S. Capitol building. He ducks and weaves around meandering bunches of light-hearted tourists and packs of more purposeful and better-dressed Washington power players. A map displayed on the screen of his iPhone shows the route to a secure VerbanskiCorp branch office not far away. Tense, and with all of his senses turned way up, Casey makes his way toward safety while continuing to watch for signs that he's being tracked or followed.

He alternates between consulting the digital map and bringing the phone back to his ear, futilely trying to contact Chuck and Sarah. Eventually, after multiple failed attempts, he reluctantly changes tactics and calls the unsecured Carmichael Industries line. Alex answers the call after two rings.

_("Dad? Where are you? What's happening? You ran off so fast, we didn't—")_

"Alex—listen, can't talk now—not on this line—but I need you to track down Chuck and Sarah and have them call me on the encrypted line right away."

_("Sure…but what's up? You sound upset.")_

"No—it's okay. I'm in D.C. and I'm heading to our local office. I'm all right, Alex. Just get that message to Chuck and Sarah. I'll explain later. Gotta hang up now—'bye."

His objective—a high-rise building on the north side of Pennsylvania Avenue—comes into his view just two blocks farther ahead. The VerbanskiCorp offices are on the eighth floor and are still fully lit. His spirits rise, only to drop again as he gets closer and sees two black government SUVs parked right in front of the bullding, and four agents staking out the entrance.

Casey consults his phone for a back way into the building—and finds it. Out of the corner of one eye, he notices another black government car—a limousine—rolling up slowly behind him with only its parking lights on. He slows his pace slightly, timing it so that he arrives at the next intersection just as the traffic lights change in his favor. The black limo is stuck behind a delivery van that stops for the red light.

Abruptly, Casey veers left and steps off of the curb, ready to sprint across Pennsylvania Avenue before the occupants of the black limo have a chance to jump out after him. But at that same instant, a silver-dollar-sized moth that had been orbiting a streetlight over his head swoops down and _(toink!) _smacks Casey in the forehead. The impact is surprisingly heavy and solid, and it knocks the stalwart Marine off his stride for a moment. Then the moth loops around to come at his face again—and Casey realizes that it's a CIA nano-drone, not a real insect.

He snarls and lashes out at the diving Noctuidor with the back of his big right hand, volleying the drone moth straight into the side of the delivery van _(wzzz…tumpp!),_ from where it drops to the pavement _(pffthhzzzz…)_ trailing purplish-blue sparks. The nano-drone is neutralized, but the brief battle has allowed just enough time for the black limousine to zip around the delivery van and _screeeech_ to a halt directly across Casey's intended escape route.

Instinctively, Casey reaches for the gun beneath his jacket. But nobody emerges from the limo to accost him. Instead, a passenger in the back rolls down the window and calls out:

"_Good evening, Colonel. Why not join me for a little chat?"_

_(Music: "Storm Coming," by Gnarls Barkley)_

* * *

**And back to northeastern Oklahoma….**

Pitching and yawing in the shifting winds, dodging debris, the blue Corvette hurtles over one rise, and then another…but no small town comes into sight. Sarah and Chuck can see nothing ahead of them but more and more cornfields. Overhead, the implacable storm clouds have taken on a greasy, greenish hue, and little grey cloud-wisps begin to dance in frenzied spirals just below the ceiling.

Mesmerized by the fearful panorama overhead, Chuck has his face pressed to the windshield. "Babe—not to panic or anything—but it looks like all hell is getting ready to bust loose over top of us. You see that school yet?"

"He said five miles, sweetie," replies Sarah, fighting to keep her voice steady and to keep the lightweight sports car on the road. "We've only gone two so far. We'll make it."

Another small hill—and this time, on the downgrade, they come upon a school bus stopped on the right side of the road. Its red blinkers are flashing, and dozens of little arms and hands are flailing out through all of the windows. Chuck and Sarah instantly realize that these children aren't waving a greeting; they're pleading for help, in abject terror.

"Oh—mi—god," Sarah says.

"How could anybody just _leave them_ here?" asks Chuck incredulously.

Sarah pulls the Corvette over behind the school bus. The Bartowskis emerge with difficulty into a wind that shrieks against their bodies. As Sarah struggles to make her way around the front of the car, she loses her footing in the slippery wet grass alongside the road—just as a gust seizes her and begins to topple her backward.

"_Sarah!"_ Chuck lunges desperately over the hood and grabs her arm, then holds on as she regains her equilibrium and scrambles around to his side of the Corvette.

"_Whew! Thanks, sweetie!" _she yells into his ear. With their arms around each other, Chuck and Sarah stagger through the wind and rain to the right front side of the school bus, passing beneath the flailing hands of the frightened children inside. Even over the ear-piercing wail of the storm, they can hear the kids screaming and crying. When they reach the entry doors, they pound on them, but to no avail.

"_There's gotta be a safety release!"_ Sarah cries. Squinting as their eyes fill with cold rain, keeping a secure grip on each other with one hand, she and Chuck run their free hands over the side of the bus…until he finds the right lever and yanks it down sharply.

The entry doors _hissss_ open. Chuck half-lifts, half-throws his wife into the bus and dives in behind her. The lights are on and the engine is idling, but the driver's seat is unoccupied. Sarah spots the door switch on the control panel and slams it home. The doors swing closed again—ushering in a minimal respite from the brunt of the storm.

The children's screaming subsides to sobs and sniffles, as thirty-six pairs of tiny eyes look hopefully at Sarah and Chuck.

"It's all right," Chuck calls out to the kids. "We're gonna get you all out of here and safely to a shelter. Just stay in your seats, close your windows if you can—and make sure to buckle your safety belts."

Sarah emits a surprised cry and grabs her husband's arm again. "Chuck—_look!"_

The bus driver—a young woman about their age—lies on her back on a bench seat in the first row: gripping the seat cushion so hard that all of her knuckles are ghostly white; and lifting her head to look at Sarah and Chuck with a grimace of great pain. Her abdomen is big and rounded, her legs are askew, and she's panting deeply and raggedly—she's extremely pregnant and already in labor!

The Bartowskis turn to gape open-mouthed and wide-eyed at each other.

"Do _you_ know how to deliver a baby?" Chuck asks.

"_No!"_ Sarah fires back—surprised that he would ask that. "Why _would_ I?"

He flushes and shrugs. "Well…you know…I mean…there was Molly…."

"Chuck, I wasn't there when she was _born!_ At least I _think_ I wasn't th—"

_(WHUNNK!) _A heavy piece of debris crashes down against the roof of the school bus, which rattles the entire vehicle and starts the children screaming and crying once more. Chuck and Sarah are instantly all business again.

"I'll do what I can for her," says Sarah. "Can you drive the bus?"

"I'm about to learn," Chuck replies, as he leaps into the driver's seat and flashes on the controls. In seconds, he has the school bus back on the road. The bus sways and teeters, buffeted relentlessly by wind shear, but begins to pick up speed as it heads in the direction of the elementary school, and safety.

But close behind them—as Chuck can see in his rear-view mirrors—the sky grows increasingly turbulent. Blazing lightning forks from cloud to cloud and down to the ground. The steady drum of thunder is all but lost in the wail of the wind. And then…a spinning, greenish-grey funnel cloud emerges from the cloud bank for a moment, before it is sucked back up. Chuck swallows hard and pushes the bus a little bit more.

Meanwhile, Sarah grabs the back of Chuck's seat to steady herself as she leans forward to tend to the distressed bus driver. She takes off her jacket and lays it on the bench seat under the woman's legs.

"I'm so…s-sorry," the driver gasps. "Tornado…warning came…had to turn around…but the baby…she's three weeks early…m-must've been the stress…couldn't drive…."

"Were you able to call for help?" Sarah asks her.

"Tried to…radio m-my dispatcher…no good…" The young woman groans as a strong contraction seizes her.

"It's okay…it's okay," says Sarah, though she really doesn't know how to respond. "You and your baby and everyone else will be all right."

"_Hang on!"_ Chuck yells out. The bus abruptly swerves to the left and back to the right—its left-side wheels momentarily leaving the road—as Chuck dodges more oncoming debris.

"_Chuck!" _Sarah and the bus driver nearly drop to the floor, and the children scream even louder.

"Sorry babe—couldn't avoid it!"

Calling on all the determination she can, the bus driver sits up just enough so that she can peer over the seat back and face her young charges.

"_Hush now!"_ she chides them. "Helmets on…get your heads…down! Remember your bad weather drill!"

Almost as one, thirty-six kids go silent, then reach into backpacks and bags and come out with bicycle helmets, which they quickly strap to their heads. The older children help the younger ones get their helmets on properly. Then all of them put their heads between their knees and wait quietly. Watching them, Sarah smiles in spite of the terrifying situation—but then her heart sinks as she remembers something else. She puts a hand on her husband's shoulder.

"Chuck…the car…the _package!"_

"I know, babe," he replies, grimly. "I know. Can't worry about that now."

The bus driver slumps back in the seat and winces with another contraction.

"Baby wants out…_now_…need to push…" she moans.

Sarah can feel herself getting flustered—she needs to do _something_—and she gets a wild inspiration!

"Sweetie—your iPad—quick!" She clenches her fists in nervous anticipation as Chuck takes one hand off the steering wheel just long enough to extract the tablet computer from his jacket pocket and pass it back to her.

"Here you go, babe. Not sure it'll be much—_hey, what d'ya know? _Four bars!"

"Figured it was worth a shot," says Sarah in a slightly more confident tone. "That school up ahead must have a cell tower that's still functioning. Let's not waste any time in case we lose that too."

Sarah wedges herself between the bench seat and the driver's seat to hold herself steady against the unpredictable bounces and shifts of the bus. Then she flips the iPad over in her hands, and addresses the blank screen: _"Call Ellie!"_

Both Sarah and Chuck cheer softly as the call goes through! Ellie appears on screen: sitting at her kitchen table, spoon-feeding little Clara in her high chair. Across the kitchen, Devon, wearing an apron, stirs a pot on the stove.

_("Sarah! Hi!"_ cries Ellie joyfully, as Devon waves in the background. _"Are you two getting close? You gonna make it here for dinner?")_

"Umm…not quite yet," Sarah replies cautiously. "We're still in Oklahoma."

Both adult Woodcombs immediately look worried.

_("Oklahoma?"_ asks Devon. _"We just saw on the news there's some really bad—")_

"Right," Sarah cuts in. "Sorry to be so rude but we have an emergency." She aims the iPad camera at the prone bus driver. "We're on a moving school bus in a severe storm with a woman in labor. I _really_ need your help."

_("Roger that,"_ says Devon.)

_("It's all right, Sarah—we'll talk you through this,"_ Ellie adds. _"First thing to do is gently roll the patient onto her side. That'll help with the pain. Keep in mind that a quick birth is usually an easy birth.")_

"Good to know I guess," Sarah mutters. She bends down to move the young woman as instructed—and as she does, out of the corner of one eye she notices that it has suddenly gotten _very dark_ outside of the bus.

Chuck notices the same thing. He glances out at his side mirror—and goes sickly pale. In an unexpectedly calm and level tone, soft enough that the children behind them can't hear him, he admonishes his struggling wife:

"Babe—whatever you do—_do not_ look behind us."

_(Music continues: "Storm Coming," by Gnarls Barkley)_

**TO BE CONTINUED…in Episode 6.06, "Chuck Versus Route 66—Part Two!"**


	6. Chapter 5

**CHUCK VERSUS ROUTE 66—PART TWO (Chuck 6-06)**

The sixth episode of an imaginary sixth season of _Chuck_ picks up right where the fifth episode left off!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Chuck_…not even in the tortured dreams where my hypothetical "season 6" episodes first take shape. So the WB can chillax.

* * *

**PART TWO**

**CHAPTER 5**

**Thursday evening, Washington, D. C.**

_(Music: "Your Secret's Safe With Me," by Walking Papers)_

The black government limousine melds with the ebb and flow of the capital city's interminable rush hour. The hulking and heavily armored car appears to be progressing toward a specific destination, but it is only cruising—marking time. Its driver has orders to roam the major streets and avenues, immersed in the traffic, while his very important passenger transacts her business in the plush rear cabin of the vehicle.

That passenger—the diminutive but imposing General Diane Beckman, Principal Deputy Director of National Intelligence—removes two crystal glasses and a Swarovski flask of single-malt Scotch from a concealed cabinet. She hands one of the glasses to the passenger who has just joined her.

"A drink, Colonel?" Beckman asks him. "It will help the medicine go down."

Casey takes the glass. "You're making it sound like it'll be my last drink, ma'am."

The General chuckles, pours him a generous shot of the amber-colored, smoky-scented whisky, and one for herself. As she does, her hand trembles just a little—almost unnoticeably, except to an observer as well-trained and perceptive as John Casey.

"If you and I didn't go back as far as we do, John…." Beckman leaves that thought hanging as they clink their glasses and empty them, then continues.

"Your new friend at the FBI? Tomas Mazowiecki?"

"Yeah?"

"Just been transferred out of Los Angeles. Even as we speak, he's already enroute to his new assignment…on the North Slope of Alaska."

"_Hmnh..."_ Casey's grunt has a hint of alarm in it. "And for me…?"

"For you, just a simple request from one old friend to another: Back off. The scenario is _not_ what Mr. Mazowiecki has apparently led you to imagine."

"I didn't _imagine_ that EMP deployment," Casey retorts.

Beckman's eyes narrow. "All I'm going to say to you," she replies, imperiously, "is that ever since the Quinn affair, I've been looking out for Chuck and Sarah. And you as well. Some of your old enemies are still at large. No cause for them to see you all profiled on the evening news."

"So _you're_ the one playing guardian angel?"

"Let's just call it part of your government COBRA plan."

"Now that's a telling choice of words," notes Casey. "'Cause isn't it the _ex-employee_ who has to pay for that coverage?"

The General says nothing—just pours him another whisky.

After he downs it, he tells her, "You know I won't—I _can't_—keep this intel secret from Bartowski and Walker. They deserve to know what's going on."

"Give them both my fondest regards," Beckman dryly answers. "That is, assuming you can get a call through to them any time soon."

"_Hmmh,"_ grunts Casey, recalling his own futile attempt to reach Chuck and Sarah a few minutes earlier. He waits for the General to elaborate, but she keeps mum as the limousine pulls up to the curb—back again at the Old Post Office—and a member of the security detail in the front seat hops out to open the door for him.

* * *

Moments later, after Casey has gone, General Beckman lets out a long, slow breath, and helps herself to another Scotch. Then she picks up a phone to make an encrypted call. She gets a reply after just one ring.

_("Sí…ma'am?")_

"I've just dealt with the immediate problem," Beckman speaks icily into the phone. "But _you_…Agent Saldana—you can expect to be on a much, _much_ shorter leash from now on."

* * *

**At the same time, in the tiny rural community of Langenkamp, Oklahoma**

A handful of terrified teachers and tearful parents huddle together in the scant shelter of a portico in front of the Troyal G. Brooks Elementary School: hanging onto each other to stay upright in the gusts, keeping watch on the storm-swept county road leading into town, increasingly desperate for the sight of the long-overdue school bus carrying thirty-seven (or, more accurately, thirty-eight) dearly beloved souls.

A trim, silver-haired woman wearing a smart dress and a no-nonsense look—the school principal or some similar authority figure—emerges from the front entrance into the portico. She takes care to open the door just enough for her to squeeze through, but the wind seizes it from her grasp anyway, swings it wide, and _slams_ it against the adjacent wall. The group beneath the portico turns to the silver-haired woman in surprise.

"_You can't stay out here!"_ the woman shouts at them. _"There's too much debris flying around! Please come inside now—you can keep watch through the…the…"_

The silver-haired woman's voice trails off as…before everyone's eyes, a few miles off, a funnel cloud spins out of the tormented overcast sky—and in less than a second, fattens into a coal-black twister that _SLAMS_ down to the ground with a ferocity they can all hear, even over the incessant background whine of the wind.

A middle-aged woman under the portico _screams_ and drops limply to her knees…as the others begin to sob and beg and pray out loud, gripped by terror and despair….

The tornado appears to have made first contact squarely on the right-of-way of the county road, tossing big chunks of pavement and other debris all about, disemboweling the roadway with a bone-chilling roar….

The school building is far enough away to be in no imminent danger…but if the school bus was anywhere close to that twister….

Sharing that unspeakable realization, the helpless townsfolk cry and pray ever louder, as the tornado goes on ripping across the landscape, and the first few horrible seconds stretch into agonizing minutes. Then, all of a sudden, the silver-haired woman sees something else, and points hopefully up the road….

_(Music: "Heroic Theme from Chuck," by Tim Jones)_

The school bus pops up from behind the last ridge at the edge of town, its wheels leaping off the pavement and back down again as it streaks hell-for-leather into tiny Langenkamp and makes straight for the school, with the twister as a sinister backdrop. Before the frightened teachers and parents fully grasp what's happening, the bus races into the driveway under the portico and _squeeeeeeals_ to a stop, with its red warning lights strobing.

The front door and side emergency doors snap open _(Thang! Thunk!)_ and thirty-six little children in ponchos and bicycle helmets efficiently file out from both exits. The parents and teachers gasp and cry out and reach to embrace the kids—but the silver-haired woman knows better than to keep them outside even for a moment.

"_Inside, all of you! Now!"_ She gestures toward the wide-open entrance to the school, and the kids dutifully stream into the safe enclosure of the solidly built structure.

As the adults begin to follow them, Chuck abruptly sticks his head out the front door of the bus and calls out, _"I could use a little help here, please!"_

Two muscled young farmers in denim overalls—twins—turn and quickly climb aboard, which proves a bit excessive as Chuck needed only one other person to help him bring the bus driver out. So he lets the beefy twins carry her, dazed and limp but smiling, into the school, while he stays back to help his wife descend from the bus with a most precious cargo. Sarah cradles a sleeping, perfectly healthy newborn girl, tightly swaddled in her jacket. Her attention is completely fixed on the baby in her arms. Chuck reaches an arm around Sarah's waist and guides her into the building, out of the wind and rain.

The silver-haired woman conducts the farmer twins and the Bartowskis—each with their burden—across the front lobby, weaving around little clusters of family members and teachers bending down to joyfully sweep the rescued children up in their arms. She directs them into the school nurse's office, where the twins gingerly lay the bus driver onto a cot.

"Thank you," the young woman murmurs, then looks up at Sarah and holds out her arms expectantly.

Sarah doesn't notice—she's still enraptured, softly whispering to the infant girl and lightly caressing her face.

"Uhh…babe?" Chuck taps her on the shoulder.

"Hmm? _Oh!_ Oh—yes—I'm so sorry," Sarah says to the bus driver. Blushing, she steps forward and carefully places the baby in her mother's arms. Chuck stands alongside his wife and takes her hand.

"It's okay, ma'am," replies the driver, cuddling her child and beaming at Sarah and Chuck. "Maybe I'da never had this chance, if you hadn't helped us like y'did. You're heroes…thank you both."

The silver-haired woman joins them, looking both confused and awed.

"Name's Darlene Bloom. I'm the principal here."

"Charles and Sarah Carmichael," Chuck says, as they shake hands with her in turn.

"Sir, if I understand this correctly," Bloom goes on, "between the both of you, you got the bus back on the road and out of the path of the twister, saved our kids..._and_ you also delivered Lucille's baby on the way?"

"I think that covers it," replies Chuck.

The principal shakes her head in amazement.

"It was mostly luck," Sarah quickly adds—addressing Bloom, but occasionally glancing sideways to watch Lucille bonding with her little girl. "Chu..._Charles_ and I were looking for shelter and the police sent us this way. We just happened upon that bus."

"Anybody would have stopped to help," says Chuck, and Sarah nods in agreement.

"Perhaps," answers Bloom, "but I have this sense there's something special about the both of you. This is a very small town, and just about everyone here's now in your debt, for what you did."

In the hallway just outside the nurse's office, teachers and townspeople—wide-eyed and tear-streaked, some of them clutching rescued children in their arms, begin to gather. They press close to the office window, touching the glass, brimming with wonder, murmuring thanks and blessings, staring at the new heroes of Langenkamp.

"_This could get out of hand,"_ Sarah whispers in Chuck's ear. _"We can't stick around…but do we even know if we still have a car?"_

Chuck slips his iPhone out of his pocket, taps in a code, and looks at the screen.

"_The package is still intact," _he whispers back._ "Tracer signal's strong. Could be a good sign."_

Sarah nods and turns back toward Bloom with an urgent expression.

"Darlene—thank you—we're glad it all turned out well—but Chuck and I left our own car back there, and it's really important that we try and find it and see if it can still be driven."

"As soon as the storm ends," says Chuck. "Can somebody help us?"

The principal is abashed. "I—or anyone in town—would be happy to drive you back up the road and help you look, but I'm concerned that the road's been damaged…or blocked by debris."

"I was afraid you were gonna say that," Chuck mutters.

"The county repair crew'll be out tomorrow." Bloom goes on. "You'd be more than welcome to stay the night…I've got a spare bedroom upstairs at my h—"

"_We_ can bring 'em!" one of the farmer twins cuts in excitedly. "Wind's probably dying down by now, and we can get 'em out there for a look-see before the sun sets."

"But the road…?" Bloom persists.

"Who said anythin' about using the _road!"_ the other twin booms, full-on grinning.

* * *

**About forty-five minutes later**

_(Music: "Friends in Low Places," by Garth Brooks)_

Near dusk the storm quiets, and the orange-red sun briefly hangs in the narrow strip of sky between the low clouds and the flat horizon. Just outside of Langenkamp, an Oxbo mechanized corn harvester—a piece of farm equipment about as tall and long as a semi-trailer—steadily churns its way through the wet, wind-tousled cornfields, paralleling the county road at a short distance, headed for the swath carved by the tornado.

The glassed-in cab of the harvester is tight and has only a single seat for the operator: one of the farmer twins, joyfully braying along with the music pouring from a satellite radio, skillfully piloting the big machine on a course dictated by Chuck, scrunched with Sarah in what little space is available behind the seat. Chuck holds his iPhone out at arm's length, so that both he and the farmer can follow the tracer signal emanating from the case containing the Keys—hopefully still locked in the trunk of an intact 1962 Corvette.

"_Well, ah guess ah was wrong—ah just don't belong—but then, ah've been there before…_hee, hee! Love that Garth! Don't you?"

"Who doesn't?" Chuck replies, while grimacing surreptitiously at the farmer's off-key singing.

The other twin follows a short distance behind, in the harvester's wide wake, on a John Deere tractor. As the unusual caravan cuts its way through cornstalks as high as an elephant's eye, Chuck turns to his wife with a proud expression.

"Haven't had a chance to say how incredible you were, Sarah, delivering that baby. You're the real hero."

She laughs and shakes her head. "That was all Ellie. I just followed her instructions."

"Ellie wouldn't see it that way—and neither do I."

Sarah nuzzles against his neck. "You're sweet."

"And…um…I _also_ noticed how much you fussed over that tiny girl until her mom was safe. Kind of looked like you were thinking about one of our own. Am I right?"

He feels her body tense up for a moment…and then she sighs pensively.

"Someday, Chuck…someday. I don't know…I just don't think I'm ready for it yet. But someday..." She lifts her eyes up toward his. "You understand—don't you?"

Chuck gently caresses her cheek. "Yeah, babe—of course I understand."

"You always do." Sarah leans into him with a soft, wordless, happy murmur.

Shortly thereafter, the harvester and tractor putter over a small rise and down into a swale—and it's clear that they have reached the track of the twister's devastation. The machines come to a stop, and Chuck, Sarah, and the farmer twins clamber down to the ground to survey the scene.

As Darlene Bloom had feared, the county road is shredded for hundreds of feet in either direction—and stripped away to bare soil along the midline of an angry, wide, debris-laden swath that stretches off through miles of flattened cornstalks. One of the twins whistles loudly—and Sarah and Chuck reflexively cling to each other as they both realize that the school bus had been parked _very_ close to this spot.

And there is no sign of their blue Corvette—but the tracer signal on Chuck's iPhone is still strong, and emanating from somewhere farther along the track of the tornado.

"It took the car," Chuck cries out, "took it…_that_ way!" He sprints off, with Sarah chasing him. The farmer twins look to each other, shrug their shoulders, then climb back aboard their machines and follow at a more leisurely pace.

They catch up with the Bartowskis about a quarter-mile away from the county road. Chuck and Sarah stand, breathing hard, in front of an enormous oblong mound of damp hay littered on the top and sides with shards of wooden beams and corrugated metal. Even more hay lies scattered about the twister's path as far as they can see. Chuck waves his iPhone at the sprawling mess.

"It's in _there!"_ he yells. "The signal's coming from inside that big pile of—"

"_Sheesh!"_ one of the twins interjects. "Wadn't that Cogswell's hay barn?"

"Yup," replies the other. "Twister must've sideswiped it passin' by, an' just knocked the whole blamed thing flat on its ass."

The first twin nods. "Isn't that a damn sight. Not a bale left standin'."

Chuck stuffs the iPhone back in his pocket.

"Well I don't know about the car—but the _package_ at least has to be in there somewhere!" He lurches forward and paws at the hay.

"Chuck_—stop!"_ shouts Sarah.

Too late! Almost instantaneously, Chuck's entire face contorts, and he staggers backward, consumed by a fit of violent sneezing _(Hahh—chooo! HAAH—shuunh! Snnnt! Whaahh—SHOOSH!)._ Sarah runs to his side, grabs his hand, and tugs him away from the wreckage.

"How could you forget about your hay fever?" she affectionately chides him, as his sneezes subside to sniffles. With a wink, she adds, "Guess you'd better stay in the harvester."

"Ma'am, if he's as allergic as all that, you oughtn't get any of that hay on you neither," one of the twins recommends. "Whyn't you both set in the cab an' listen to Garth while me an' my brother try findin' your car?"

So Chuck and Sarah climb back inside the harvester. Chuck turns the air conditioner way up—to filter the air—and turns the music way down, as Sarah chuckles in amusement. They watch as the farmer twins flail at the hay, slowly carving their way into the huge pile. Before very long, one of them stops after contacting some kind of solid object. He says something to his brother, who quickly brings the John Deere tractor up close to the pile. The other twin uncoils a cable from a winch at the front end of the tractor, and crawls into the hay with the cable in his hand.

Chuck sticks his head out of the cab and asks, "D'you find it?"

"Yup!" replies the twin on the tractor.

"That's fantastic! But go easy, okay? That's a classic resto-mod that may still be in one piece more or less in there!"

The other farmer twin emerges from the pile and starts the winch. Sarah gives a little cry and squeezes Chuck's hand as their blue '62 Corvette gradually appears: right-side up; with its interior and every nook and cranny stuffed full of hay like a scarecrow—but otherwise, seemingly undamaged. One twin unhooks the cable while the other opens the driver-side door. Hay cascades out as he reaches in to disengage the parking brake, and then both twins roll the car toward the harvester. Laughing in disbelief, Sarah and Chuck come down from the cab.

"Can you _believe_ it?" asks Sarah. "Of all the places that car might've been thrown…!"

"Twisters'll do some really peculiar stuff," says one of the farmer twins.

"Sure was helpful of ol' Cogswell to leave a hay barn right here," the other adds.

"He might see that different 'bout now," counters his brother.

"Well, yeah—it's amazing and all that," Chuck asserts, "but do you think the car can still be driven?"

"Dunno, but there's a real good mechanic here in Langenkamp. Bet he can set it all right for you. First light tomorrow, we'll send him out this way with a flatbed. An' Mizz Bloom already said y'can stay with her, so whyn't we just head back to town now?"

"I suppose that makes sense. Babe, what do _you_ think—?"

Chuck whirls around in surprise when he realizes that Sarah has already gone to open the trunk. She takes out their suitcase and the precious case packed with Keys, sweeps every bit of hay off them, and holds them high in delight.

"I think _I'm_ ready for a good night's sleep," she announces.

* * *

**In an all-night bar and grill near Washington Reagan National Airport**

Casey knows that sleep won't be an option for a while.

After polishing off three draft beers, starting on a fourth mug, and making six unsuccessful attempts to call Chuck and Sarah, Casey considers his other options. The last flight out to anywhere is long gone, and the next won't be departing for at least five more hours. He could get a hotel room, but he's wide awake—_wired_—spinning Mazowiecki's and Tameka's and Beckman's revelations around and around again in his mind.

Casey shrugs. The beer is cold and plentiful. The kitchen's still open. For the first time since he came into the bar, he gives his attention to the wide-screen television hanging nearest to his seat. There's a news program, showing ground and aerial clips of widespread tornado damage, somewhere out in the Midwest. He directs his hearing to catch the faint voice-over, turned almost down to zero:

"…_six dead and at least fifty-eight reported injured in northeastern Oklahoma and neighboring areas of Kansas and Missouri…." _

Casey shakes his head at the scenes of raw devastation and picks up his mug of beer.

"_But there's maybe one glimmer of good news in all this, coming out of the small town of Langenkamp, Oklahoma. This report's still not confirmed by authorities, we should note—but we're told by a reliable source that a school bus—full of children!—was rescued—driven out of a tornado's path by a young married couple who happened to be driving by. The mystery couple has not been identified as of yet, but were said to be driving a vintage car—"_

_(THHLLK!) _Casey nearly chokes on his mouthful of beer, and gapes at the screen.

"—_and may have been part of a cross-country road rally along old U. S. Route 66. We'll update this story as further details become available…."_

He grabs his iPhone from off the bar and once more calls Chuck's secure phone number.

_("We apologize…your call cannot be completed at this time owing to severe weather conditions. We apologize…your call cannot be completed at this time….")_

This time, Casey smiles. He opens his _Google Maps_ app to calculate the driving distance and time from Langenkamp, Oklahoma to Chicago: 635 miles; nine and one-half hours. Plenty of time for another few brews….

* * *

**Friday morning, well after dawn**

_(Whubba! Whubba! WHUBB!)—_the racket of a helicopter flying _very_ low overhead…

Sarah's eyes shoot open and she rolls smoothly out of bed without jolting her drowsy husband. She slips one hand between the mattress and boxspring to grab her pistol—_no gun there? No matter!_ She pivots to a defensive stance in her bare feet, alongside the bed and facing the bedroom door, arms primed as lethal weapons, ready to defend her beloved Chuck against any imminent forced entry!

"G'morning, gorgeous," mumbles Chuck from beneath the bedcovers.

He sits up to fully enjoy the sight of his wife in profile: her beautiful body resplendent in the scanty black-slip nightgown she'd worn on their anniversary night, her _wushu_ bow stance textbook-perfect, her lustrous blonde hair highlighted by the morning sunshine, that sexy deadly determination in her eyes…all that, and the cute blush of total chagrin suddenly flooding her face….

"Oops," she says. "Completely forgot where we were. Sometimes the old spy reflexes can be a real pain in the ass."

Chuck laughs and throws her a loving smile that makes her knees wobble. Sarah sits back down on the bed, and Chuck wraps his arms around her.

"Can't blame you, baby," he says. "That chopper's really obnoxious."

"I'm afraid to ask why there's a helicopter up there in the first place."

"Let's find out." He jumps up—bare-chested, wearing only navy-blue CIA-issue boxer shorts—and pads across the cool polished-wood floor of Darlene Bloom's guest bedroom to the front-facing window. Sarah admires the muscle tone that's becoming more evident on her husband's lanky frame.

"Mmmm…those isometrics are having some effect," she murmurs to herself.

"Huh?"

"Oh…nothing."

Chuck raises the window shade, peers out, and groans…then stands there, transfixed by what he sees, until Sarah comes over and puts a hand on his shoulder in concern.

"Not good?" she asks softly.

"Not good." Chuck steps aside so that Sarah can have a look.

The grassy front yard of Bloom's two-story prairie home extends for several hundred feet out to the graveled lane running in front. Spread out along that road, crowded up against a split-rail fence and staring at the house, are at least two dozen news reporters and cameramen with their satellite trucks and other vehicles parked in the background. The helicopter, still circling, bears the logo of a Tulsa television station. All that stand between Chuck and Sarah and national exposure are a police car parked at Bloom's gate, and a wiry, sandy-haired teenaged boy positioned on her front lawn, menacingly brandishing a garden hose.

"So now what?" Chuck asks, simultaneously alarmed and amused.

Sarah takes a deep breath and stretches.

"It looks stable for the moment—and I smell coffee. Bet there's a serious breakfast to be had downstairs. I expect that'll give you the energy to come up with a clever plan to get us past all those newshounds, sweetie."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, showered and dressed, Sarah and Chuck come down to the kitchen, where Darlene Bloom hugs them both and bids them sit down at her big table, beside a sweeping picture window with the shades pulled down and the curtains fully drawn. She places coffee and a platter of freshly baked cinnamon rolls down in front of them.

"These are just for starters," she teases. "I don't get to cook for others much any more, with my kids gone to college. Hope you two are hungry!"

"This is wonderful, thank you!" Sarah exclaims after sampling a cinnamon roll. "But aren't we keeping you from your work? There must be a lot to deal with."

"There will be, but not yet. School's closed for the rest of the week. It is fortunate—and thanks largely to you—that our community wasn't hit very hard."

Sounding more apologetic, she adds, "I'm sure you've noticed the county road's already open…_and_ it brought us some new visitors."

"Yeah, we did," says Chuck, nibbling on a roll. "You must cook a mean breakfast."

Bloom grips his free wrist. "I am so sorry, Charles. I thought everyone understood your desire to remain anonymous. But apparently _someone_ just couldn't hold it in. If I ever find out who it was…"

"Other than the local police, who's that armed guard keeping watch over us outside?" asks Sarah playfully.

"The neighbor's boy Sammy. His little sister Amy was one of the children you saved last night."

"We appreciate all the protection."

"And these cinnamon rolls too," Chuck adds, as he reaches for his second.

"Nobody will get in here," Bloom assures them. "That I will promise. But getting _you_ past _them_…I'm not sure."

"Maybe a little publicity would be good for our business," Chuck suggests.

Sarah snorts at that. "You know as well as I do that _our_ kind of clientele don't hire celebrity consultants. No, sweetie…we need to make a clean getaway."

"Speaking of that, Darlene…do you know what's become of our car?"

"As a matter of fact, Casper—down at the garage—already called to say your car'll be ready for you before noon. It's been real quiet over by his shop so he hasn't been interrupted."

"Really?" asks Chuck, scratching his chin. "Hmm…you know I could work with that. Baby, d'you suppose I could cobble together an outfit from our things that'd let me blend in with those reporters out there? Maybe a pair of glasses and I'll go stylin' like Clark Kent? We aren't far from his home turf, after all."

Sarah makes a face.

"Reporter, maybe. But Clark Kent—that's just not your look, sweetie."

Chuck shrugs. "Then lucky for me he's not your type."

* * *

**About an hour later**

The flatbed tow truck, with CASPER'S AUTO SERVICE emblazoned on both doors, creeps up the lane toward Darlene Bloom's house. The driver softly toots his horn to encourage the clustered reporters and camera crews to move out of its way. They warily eye the truck and its cargo: a gleaming, freshly washed light-blue sports car.

Chuck, in an official-looking windbreaker and dark sunglasses, has already snuck into the crowd unnoticed. He stands to one side pretending to be occupied with his phone and iPad, while listening to the conversations around him.

"_Hey…that's a Pontiac Firebird! I thought I heard they were driving a Corvette..."_

"_Huh! These hayseed Okies…probably don't know the difference. This has gotta be it. They're gonna make their move. Let's be ready, people!"_

"_Maybe we can rush the gate…?"_

Chuck looks up from his tablet device in concern, but a policeman with the size and build of a defensive tackle emerges from his car, flips open the holster on a big spray can of Mace on his belt, and stations himself at the gate with his massive arms folded across his chest.

The tow truck turns into Bloom's driveway. The driver climbs out to open the gate, while the Langenkamp police officer warns the encroaching reporters to stay clear, and teenaged Sammy fires a few warning sprays from the hose. The truck continues up the driveway and pulls behind the house, out of sight. The helicopter from Tulsa climbs higher and moves over the back yard, while the news teams assembled in front mill around in increasing agitation.

"_Pilot says they just unloaded the car inside the garage…can't see inside there…"_

"_It's okay…they still gotta leave _this_ way."_

Darlene Bloom appears at her front door and shouts at the teenager with the hose.

"_Sammy!_ Son? Would you come here please? I need your help with some suitcases. Don't worry now—Officer Ironmoccasin will keep watch for you for a moment."

Sammy looks to the policeman, who nods and waves toward the house. The tall, skinny teen drops the hose, sprints across the lawn, and enters the house. A moment later, he comes out with a large suitcase and a small suitcase, and carries them around behind the house, as Bloom follows.

Seconds later: the revving of a powerful automotive engine, loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the hovering news helicopter.

"_There they go!"_ Chuck yells as loudly as he can. _"Look—there's a side gate!"_

The Firebird, with its top up and a female driver and male passenger hunched low in their seats, _zooms_ out from the garage behind the house and tears through the grass in the side yard, aimed at a barely noticeable little gate in the fence there. The car _shreeeeks_ hard left onto a two-track road—still muddy from the storm—throwing out a curtain of brown water and dense clods of mud and turf as it turns. The driver regains control and takes off into the cornfields…headed _away_ from Langenkamp.

The helicopter banks sharply in pursuit, as the news crews on the ground stumble and fumble and jump chaotically into their satellite trucks and SUVs. Jockeying dangerously for position, the vehicles in the media caravan bounce onto the muddy, ungraded road, which soon proves to be very, _very_ slow going for vehicles of their size. Only the chopper can keep pace with the Firebird, which races on across the rolling green fields.

Officer Ironmoccasin, shaking his head and chortling, is still standing by the fence in front. A few minutes later, the tow truck rolls out from behind the house and returns to the front gate.

Chuck emerges from his hiding place in the front passenger seat of the police vehicle and waves a salute of thanks to the policeman. Then he climbs up onto the running board on the passenger side of the truck and sticks his head in the open window.

Crouched on the floor in front of the passenger seat and below the dashboard, Sarah grins at her husband. Their suitcase, and the case with the Keys, are there as well.

Chuck gets into the seat, and Sarah crawls up into his lap. The driver reaches across the seat to shake Chuck's hand "Hi—I'm Casper. You must be Mr. Charles. Got your Vette all good to go back at my shop in town, sir. An' I must say, it's a beaut!"

"Thank you, Casper," Chuck replies. "And thanks for coming up with a decoy vehicle on such short notice."

"Waren't much trouble," says Casper. "There's a whole slew of neat ol' cars out back'a my shop. That Firebird's a resto-mod like your Vette. Maybe not quite as fast, but it'll keep those city fools chasin' wild goose 'til you get back on the Interstate."

"And it's a nice joyride for Darlene and Sammy too," observes Sarah. "Wish I could see the looks on those reporters' faces when they finally meet up."

Before long, the Bartowskis get back their Corvette, and once again head northeast on the Interstate, with the midday spring sun at their backs, still on the relict route of the former U. S. Highway 66, leading toward Joplin…St. Louis…and Chicago.

_(Music: "Running for Cover," by Ivan & Alyosha)_

* * *

**But back in Los Angeles….**

_("Something about this so-called 'mystery hero couple' out there on Route 66…it just smells really familiar, y'know?") _

_("Yeah. And it actually _was_ a blue '62 Corvette…wasn't it?)_

_("That's right. Traffic cam caught 'em on I-44 through Joplin, Missouri earlier today. Faces blurry but the driver's a blonde…and there's no mistaking that car.")_

_("Well, starting on the assumption it's a rental or a lease…even in this town there're not too many places you'd find a car like that. I'll let you know as soon as I learn anything, Chrissy.")_

_("Sounds good. Just be careful.")_

The crisply dressed Asian-American woman puts away her phone, gets out of her parked car, makes her way across a busy street—and enters the lot of the same luxury-car rental dealer where Chuck and Sarah found their Corvette. She strides up to the front office and waves an ID card at the rental agent sitting behind the counter.

"Hi…my name's Helena Lee. I'm an investigative reporter with SNN...and I'm here to ask about a car..."


End file.
